The Parting of the Ways
by Shades of Ink
Summary: Currently undergoing massive construction... and several nose jobs. (joke)
1. A Child's Weapon

Author's Note: Slow going at first, and a little dully written (I did start this a long time ago), but you can't start out a story like this with too much drama. It begins with an eleven-year-old boy who learns he's a wizard. And yes, that's been done before, so I'm trying what I can to make it interesting without reinventing anything you already know, and therefore boring you all to death.  
  
There will be drama and murder, but not yet. Boys can only be so psychotic at this age. So... I guess, let the story develop with an open mind... I didn't choose Drama/tragedy for no reason at all. This will be very long, and a little cute at first, so bear with me, I can't find the heart to rewrite any of the early stuff.  
  
What a wimp I am, eh? Well, expect the rating to go up when Tom gets all evil and stuff. It happens.  
  
- now, the story...  
  
~~  
  
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~~  
  
Lord Voldemort had lived awhile now. He'd seen too many things, too many countries, too many lives, too many deaths. Too many memories – too much attachment to the past. Soullessly and without effort, he detached himself from it.  
  
But there was someone he often remembered – the only one he'd ever felt pain for.  
  
That boy had been his first victim. His life had been short, but intense. He'd killed himself, in a way; Voldemort had only helped him along. Little by little, year by year, the boy grew older, and died a little more.  
  
The Dark Lord's first victim had begun to know him a little before he died. But after all these years, why should he, Lord Voldemort, show any pain for those he'd destroyed? Why should he remember the boy at all?  
  
Didn't death silence a person? Shouldn't death have silenced the boy's fear and conscience?  
  
Why should he remember Tom Marvolo Riddle after all these years?  
  
--------------------------------------- -----  
  
"Nonsense," the head of the orphanage muttered, clutching the steering wheel murderously.  
  
Tom Riddle kept silent. The whole day had become a blur of confusion, understanding, and more confusion.  
  
Who knew a stupid letter could bring such news? Who knew he'd been worth something all along? Who knew his mother had been any different from all the other buried memories the children had locked in their minds? Who knew his life had been more than this orphan nonsense?  
  
Nonsense, Tom thought with a grin. What about what I did to Brian Dursley? And the poor boy's swollen ears - was that nonsense? It seemed real enough – for pain, at least.  
  
The car stopped at an unfamiliar place in the heart of London. "At least we'll be rid of you," Mrs. Wentworth spat with all the disdain she could muster into her heavily wrinkled face. Tom gave her an answering scowl of gratitude, and grabbing his trunk, slammed the car door.  
  
He hadn't a clue where he was, what he was, or where he was going, but he was here. Wherever that was...  
  
An old worn sign was hanging above him reading, "The Leaky Cauldron". He stepped in, wondering why it invited him so.  
  
It took him a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, it was to an odd sight indeed. There were people unnaturally tall and impossibly short, people with strange cloaks and robes, and people with scraggly hair and crooked noses. It took Tom a while to find someone who looked even remotely normal.  
  
Across the room was a boy close to, if not exactly his age with black hair and sharp gray eyes. He squinted when he noticed Tom, and walked over proudly, despite his lack of height.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked coldly.  
  
Tom decided to answer with a question. "Where am I?"  
  
The boy smirked. "You sure you're in the right place?"  
  
Tom tried to strand up taller – he wasn't going to look like an idiot. "Depends on what this place is," he answered, narrowing his eyes questioningly.  
  
The boy lowered his voice, "You a muggle?"  
  
"A what?"  
  
"That's what I thought."  
  
"Wait – "  
  
"Look, go outside, find your family, and don't come back here."  
  
Tom frowned. This boy was just as young as he was – shouldn't he be with his family?  
  
"What's a muggle?" he demanded.  
  
"Just forget it, awright? Go!" The boy glanced around apprehensively.  
  
A strange woman walked into the pub wearing a long black cloak and a pointed hat. The oddest thought occurred to Tom, yet it explained the woman's strange appearance. She was a witch.  
  
"Are – are you a wizard?" Tom asked uncertainly. If he was, then he was definitely in the right place.  
  
The boy looked momentarily startled, but then grinned broadly. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," he said.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"I was waiting for my brother Alphard, but I'm guessing he went ahead without me." The boy (who's name turned out to be Artemus Black) tapped a few bricks with what seemed to be a wand, and the wall twisted and worked to give way to a broad street.  
  
"The wand's my dad's. I haven't one yet – that's what I'm here for."  
  
Tom nodded, even though he didn't understand completely. "Where's your family?" he asked.  
  
"Ah, they dropped me off. Couldn't stay, of course – they had work. But they figured I knew what I was doing. Yours?"  
  
Tom shrugged. "Dead, 's far as I can tell."  
  
Artemus stopped dead in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. "Were they muggles?"  
  
Tom felt incredibly stupid. "Exactly what – "  
  
"Were they non-magical people?" he elaborated, cutting him off. He seemed to be looking at him in disgust, but Tom decided he must have been imagining it.  
  
"Only me dad."  
  
Artemus's shoulders dropped, but his expression grew somewhat colder. "Best not to tell anyone that," he said.  
  
Tom frowned. "Why not? Is it bad?"  
  
Artemus looked as if he'd been smacked in the face. "Don't you know what it means? Don't you want to be sorted in Slytherin?"  
  
Tom's face remained blank.  
  
Artemus sighed, then went into explanation. "It's one of the houses at Hogwarts – you know, the school. It's the purest, and the most honorable in my family."  
  
"He's right, you know," came another voice. "Though I can't say that all the time or his head'll swell." This boy looked a few years older, and the similarity between him and Artemus was almost uncanny, except for his brown eyes.  
  
Artemus rolled his eyes. "Hullo. Tom, this is Alphard, unfortunately. "  
  
Alphard frowned before turning back to Tom. "First year, too, eh? Well, you look like a Slytherin – maybe you'll get sorted with me and Artemus. That is, if Arty's put in Slytherin at all..."  
  
"And I will be," the shorter of the two replied harshly. "Besides, Tom's just a dirty half-blood."  
  
Alphard scowled at his younger brother. "Oh yeah? I don't see why that makes him dirty. Looks awright to me. Besides, ever hear about Ezra Stratus? She was a half blood, and she got in Slytherin. They never kicked her out, either."  
  
Artemus glanced at Tom and then Alphard. "Right," he said. "Got any money?" he asked. Tom shook his head.  
  
"No worries," Alphard cut in. "I'm sure Mum and Dad won't even notice."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Their smiles brighter, and their pockets heavier, the three underaged wizards proceeded down the street.  
  
All around Tom were shops stocked with everything imaginable, or unimaginable rather. The place seemed to be constantly stocked with everything he had never thought to buy – cauldrons, toads, star adorned cloaks, shoes that tied themselves, food that bit back, and (of all things) magical wands.  
  
He looked to his right, and stopped. What met his eyes wasn't fascinating, glorious, or whimsical in any way. It was exactly the opposite – dark, gloomy, and somehow twisting on level ground. But for some odd reason it struck his interest far beyond anything else around him.  
  
"What's that place over there?" he asked, indicating it with a nod of his head.  
  
Artemus seemed to be torn between excitement and fear.  
  
"Oh," Alphard said. "That's Knockturn Alley."  
  
"D'you ever... go down there?"  
  
Alphard and Artemus glanced at each other momentarily before shaking their heads emphatically. "We'd probably never come out the same," Alphard said.  
  
"Dad told us stories about it, though," Artemus contributed proudly. "He's been there before. It's chock-full of Dark people. Dad knows a lot of 'em, but our family never really got into it... the Dark Arts, I mean."  
  
Alphard nodded. "But we stick real close to keeping a pure family. Mum and Dad don't really like muggles at all."  
  
"Or mudbloods, for that matter," Artemus muttered under his breath. Alphard frowned at his brother again, but Artemus didn't seem to notice.  
  
"Let's get our wands," he said.  
  
It wasn't long at all before they passed a shop reading "Ollivander's". Tom stopped, but the two brothers didn't.  
  
"You can go there if you want," Alphard said. "But Arty's going to the one our family always goes to. Forget what they say about it being the best place to go – Ollivander's is too worn down and cheap, and besides, the ruddy old bloke creeps me out."  
  
Tom nodded his head, still gazing at the sign. Despite the unattractive description, Tom found himself only more inclined to do so. "Yeah, I think I'll go in there."  
  
"Meet you here in half an hour," one of them called, but Tom barely heard it.  
  
Slowly, he stepped into the dusty, dark shop. Only one single lamp was lit, but it seemed to reach to the end of the row of ceiling-high shelves, but only barely enough that you could determine there was in fact an end.  
  
"Tom Riddle, isn't it?" came a raspy voice from the shadows, making Tom jump, but only slightly.  
  
"Yes. How did you know?"  
  
"A wizard has his ways."  
  
"I – I need a wand."  
  
The wizard stepped out of the shadows, and into the meager light emitting from the lamp, nodding his head. The wizard lit his own wand, sending a somewhat stronger light throughout the shop.  
  
This was when Tom realized that to his left was a large red and gold bird. He was suddenly reminded of one of the storybooks he'd read as a little boy. "Is that a – "  
  
"Phoenix, yes."  
  
"What's it for?"  
  
"Many things, Mr. Riddle. But all that matters for her here is the feathers she gives off to me for wand cores. I have others that I use... however..." he paused with a glint of mystery in his eye, "she's only given me one feather, and therefore, only one wand – " He stopped, his voice growing hard, "and I don't intend on selling it."  
  
Tom nodded his head submissively, giving the bird a wary glance.  
  
Mr. Ollivander turned back to Tom, and began tapping his fingers on the desk. "A wand..."  
  
He quickly turned around, disappeared into one of the rows of shelves, and came back with a thin box in his hand. He opened it hastily, and thrust the wand into Tom's hand.  
  
Tom expected himself to feel stupid or awkward, but somehow, the graceful wave and flick of his wrist seemed to shoot through his arm as if he'd known it for years.  
  
It was altogether unfamiliar, but in every other way, it was second nature to him.  
  
However, nothing seemed to happen.  
  
Mr. Ollivander frowned and said, "Try it again."  
  
Tom raised his hand in the air once more, but before he could bring it back down, Fawkes let out a loud warning call. Tom stopped, and Mr. Ollivander turned his head.  
  
"Perhaps not," he said, narrowing his eyes at the phoenix. He took the wand back, and went back for a different one.  
  
He came back with another wand and glanced quickly at Fawkes before extending his hand towards Tom. Fawkes took flight in a flurry of crimson feathers, and caught the wand from Tom's hand, spitting it out disdainfully.  
  
Mr. Ollivander shook his head, disappearing once again into the back for another wand.  
  
Fawkes squawked at him before he could even get back to Tom. Mr. Ollivander stopped for a few moments, shrugged his shoulders as if in defeat, and retraced his steps to return the wand to its place on the shelf.  
  
The next time he came back into view, however, his hands were empty. His eyes locked with the phoenix's, and he seemed to come to a decision, because he frowned and nodded his head.  
  
He walked over to the phoenix and opened the drawer of the table Fawkes was perched on. Inside was a single wand – without a box.  
  
Slowly, and somewhat regretfully, he handed it to Tom, who gazed at it for a moment with wonder. But before he could move his arm at all, an outburst of brilliant green sparks shot from the wand, forming ghostly figures which began to swim and float throughout the entire shop, whispering to each other mysterious nothings, some questioning, others conversing pleasantly, the rest silently passing by without a word, their eyes dead. Tom blinked, and the forms shattered, fading into an emerald mist.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
No answer, except for the obvious. "That was... that was all you..." Mr. Ollivander's eyes were wide. "How old are you, boy?"  
  
"Eleven."  
  
Another question, somewhat irrelevant... "What was your mother's name?"  
  
Fawkes interrupted with a low note, and Mr. Ollivander broke his eye contact to turn around. He took a deep, shaky breath, and Tom turned to see a single red feather floating towards the ground.  
  
Hesitantly, Tom broke the silence. "How much for the wand?"  
  
Mr. Ollivander only shook his head numbly. "Just go on," he said, not looking away from the phoenix and its feather.  
  
"But, sir..."  
  
"Leave."  
  
Tom took a clumsy step backwards before running from the shop. 


	2. Of Friends and Foes

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Well, maybe a little bit is. But not Tom and not Alphard. And a few others I haven't the energy to name off as well.  
  
Chapter Two: Of Friends and Foes  
  
The wand was safe in his pocket, but Tom continued to grip it tightly. Glancing around, he remembered that Artemus and Alphard were still shopping.  
  
As if pulled by an invisible thread, his head slowly turned to the right, and his eyes ventured down Knockturn Alley as far as they could reach.  
  
Tom's grip on his wand grew tighter, and his heart sped up. It seemed as if the very blood in his veins was compelling him to take a step forward. Something inside of him belonged there, though he wasn't sure exactly what.  
  
With the sensation of falling forward with each step, Tom Riddle plunged into the daunting shadow.  
  
"Oy, Tom!"  
  
Broken from his captivation, he turned his head around.  
  
"What took you so long?"  
  
The whisperings left his mind, and he was young Tom again. "Sorry... I, er, got lost."  
  
Artemus stifled a laugh. "Just wait until you get to the school. You'll be hopeless." Alphard nudged him in the shoulder, and Artemus grinned sheepishly. "It's true."  
  
"You haven't even been there, you idiot." Alphard, for once, showed his superiority both in age, height, and wisdom, which must have been a rare thing, for Artemus submissively hushed, whether in due respect or mere surprise.  
  
"What's next, then?" Tom asked eagerly.  
  
The two brothers were somewhat amused. "School, of course. Didn't you notice it was the day we were meant to leave?"  
  
"No one told me, and besides, what are you doing shopping at the last minute?"  
  
"Our parents decided to kill two birds with one stone. They don't like using muggle cars much. Embarrassed, I think."  
  
Alphard nodded. "But that's the price they pay with having children that can't Apparate."  
  
"Yet," Artemus cut in, showing clear annoyance.  
  
"Oh," Tom said uneasily.  
  
Artemus scowled and muttered, "Clearly, we're going to be showing this bloke around quite a bit."  
  
Alphard smiled good-naturedly, in deep contrast with the shorter version next to him. "Arty's only jealous he won't be the one receiving the special treatment this year."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Tom didn't quite know what he'd expected – but he knew it was definitely something more than just his everyday King's Cross Station. He'd been here once before, and there hadn't seemed to be anything special about it then, nor was there now.  
  
Apart from finding seemingly nonexistent platforms, running through walls carrying owls while dodging suspicious glances, and boarding an enormous train that headed in no cardinal direction in particular, nothing of real importance happened.  
  
Or at least, that's how the other students described it. Tom, however, couldn't quite take it all in without catching himself a little dizzy once in a while.  
  
"You kids get back here," Mrs. Black snapped. Tom jumped. "You can go ahead," Alphard whispered. Tom did so, and upon reaching the train, he glanced back to see the two of them being scolded for things like not standing straight and nearly bumping into important witches and wizards.  
  
He stepped onto the train and suddenly felt awfully short. A few people who seemed to be in their seventh year were squeezing past him. He poked his head into each of the compartments finding them full of either fourth years playing some seemingly messy game involving marbles, a mob of gossiping, giggling girls, a small group of students that sat still like cardboard, each bearing a prefect's badge, or a full compartment of small first years like himself that were sorry to say there was no room.  
  
Tom settled on a nearly empty compartment in the very back. The only occupant was a boy near, if not exactly his age with dark hair and glasses.  
  
Tom considered the lone figure, concluded it was safe, and sat down across from him, with hope that he wouldn't disturb him. The boy seemed to be enthralled in whatever he was reading.  
  
Tom sat still, frequently glancing at the silent boy to see if he'd noticed him sit down, but judging by his unflinching expression of vague interest in what he was reading, it didn't seem likely.  
  
Finally, when the students felt the jolt and gentle roll of the train beginning to move, the dark haired boy looked up, out the window, and back to his book.  
  
Tom frowned. Lack of attention always made him uneasy. Every time he'd made trouble at the orphanage, the teachers and supervisors always made such a fuss. Usually, Tom would've made just as much of a fuss, playing games and evading trouble only to frustrate the adults, and sooner or later, the head of the orphanage would be brought into the game. That was always when it got fun.  
  
But after a while they'd learned of Tom's weakness. They'd turn their back, flinching only slightly at the disaster he caused and the complaints from other children. Eventually, he'd give up, and find something useful to do.  
  
Tom cleared his throat, but to no avail.  
  
After what must have been half an hour, the boy finally showed signs of life. He slammed his book closed and grinned. It was so startling that Tom nearly jumped in his seat.  
  
"Not much of a talker, are you?" the boy inquired.  
  
Tom shut his mouth when he found it'd been hanging open. "I suppose not," he answered quietly.  
  
"Name?" the boy said as an officer of the royal navy would have asked for an inferior's name and rank.  
  
"Tom Riddle."  
  
"Sounds familiar. Do my parents know yours?"  
  
"I doubt it," Tom answered with a bitter laugh.  
  
The boy smiled incredulously at Tom's dry humor. Perhaps he'd thought him mute or socially timid, for he looked vaguely impressed. "Do you even know who I am?"  
  
"No."  
  
The boy held out a hand for Tom to shake, which he did so hesitantly, but the boy didn't mention his name.  
  
A plump witch came around a little after noon with a trolley of sweets Tom had never heard of or seen before. The boy apparently had, for he shot up without any further thought to browse through the food.  
  
His fingers glided along a few boxes, he delved through some wrapped candies, and searched around with an air of inspection. Finally, with nothing chosen, he patted his stomach and announced he'd had a big breakfast. The witch rolled away without question.  
  
He stood for a few moments, leaning against the door with a face of concentration, which relaxed once the sound of trolley wheels had died away.  
  
Grinning broadly, the boy dropped himself onto the seat, pulling a few boxes from his sleeve and tossing them towards Tom.  
  
"Here, take these. Enjoy them, too – they cost me a fortune."  
  
Tom smiled, deciding finally that he liked this boy.  
  
"Simon Potter," he said finally. "Thought you might've known me because of my dad."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"My dad... Frank Potter – famous Auror?"  
  
Tom's expression was vacant.  
  
"Grindelwald? You know, that Dark wizard from Germany?"  
  
Tom shook his head, shrugging. He opened one of the boxes Simon had tossed at him, his eyes widening when a large, chocolate-brown frog jumped out.  
  
Instantly, Simon understood. "You're muggle-born, aren't you?" He sighed. "That would explain it."  
  
Tom's spirits plummeted. He'd been hoping to have made a friend. "Half, I guess. My mum was... you know, magical and all that... but she died after I was born."  
  
Simon whistled. "Sorry."  
  
"Y – you don't mind that my dad's a muggle?"  
  
"He might, but why should I? Don't even know the chap."  
  
"Well, I thought that because I wasn't... pure – "  
  
Much to his surprise, Simon laughed. "You must've been taking advice from the Slytherins. That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard. You can do magic, right?"  
  
Tom shrugged.  
  
"Well, if you can, then you're just as good as everyone else. Who told you that, anyway?"  
  
"Artemus Black."  
  
Simon smiled knowingly. "That would explain it. The Blacks are all like that. They give my dad hell when they see him, telling him it's a disgrace to stoop low enough to defend muggles. The stupid, arrogant – "  
  
"Tom!"  
  
The subject of exclamation turned towards the door to see who'd called his name. It was Alphard. Simon stifled a grin, shooting his eyes elsewhere – out the window, perhaps.  
  
"We couldn't find you, so we sat up front. Come, you should meet some people."  
  
"Some Slytherins, you mean," Simon intervened, his eyes following the passing trees.  
  
"Possibly," Artemus spat, stepping in behind his brother.  
  
Alphard smiled pleasantly. "You a first year also?"  
  
Simon nodded, assuming Alphard was smiling because he didn't know why Artemus wasn't. "Simon Potter," he said in explanation.  
  
Just as expected, Alphard's face fell, and Artemus gave him a good kick in the foot.  
  
"Come on, Tom, let's leave." Artemus looked distastefully at Simon, who answered him smugly.  
  
"Nothing wrong with me is there? My family's pure, no need to worry about it rubbing off. Tom and I were just talking about his background."  
  
Artemus grimaced.  
  
Alphard gave his brother a quieting look, and took control of the situation. "I see you have some extra chocolate frogs there."  
  
Simon raised his eyebrows. "Yeah? What about them?"  
  
Alphard shrugged. "Nothing."  
  
Hell of a way to take control, Tom thought. Artemus pushed Alphard out of the way, and grabbed a chocolate frog. He opened it, and the enchanted candy jumped onto his face.  
  
Simon sent a curse at the frog, and it melted all over Artemus's robes. Tom felt a thrill at seeing magic done in front of him.  
  
"Sorry," Simon said, looking truly concerned. He grabbed another box, whispered something out of the side of his mouth, and handed it to Alphard, who passed it on warily. Artemus stuffed it in his mouth, finally heading for the door.  
  
He turned around and faced Tom. He croaked.  
  
Something caught Simon's interest beyond the window once again. Artemus whipped out his wand impressively, and croaked his incantation. Tom glanced between the two, one of them furious, the other feigning a short attention span.  
  
Artemus quickly disappeared from the compartment. Alphard lingered for a moment, muttered a quick, "Good one", and fled after his younger brother.  
  
Tom raised his eyebrows at Simon, who laughed and brought out the book he'd been studying earlier. It was a book of spells.  
  
"You thought I came up with that on the spot?" Simon said. He grinned at his wand. "Oh no. Artemus Black was no coincidence. I've been waiting for this meeting as long as I can remember."  
  
Tom nodded at the book. "Can I borrow that, you think?"  
  
"Standard Book of Spells Grade One? You should have one." Simon laughed. "It was nothing extraordinary, just some simple curses. It goes way beyond that, believe me. This is only the beginning, Tom."  
  
He took Simon's word for it, growing steadily more excited for what lay ahead.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Reviews: Yay!  
  
Duskrider Q: Well, to be quite honest, I may not be in touch with reality. For one thing, I'm only an itty-bitty freshman. But still, I thought I'd show that the Blacks were a little negligent and careless. I intended to have someone escort them to the station, though. But yeah, I guess Tom was a little out on a limb there.  
  
Awkward: Ah... a Seer. I would write that, but it would be my third story with a Seer in it. I was actually going to have a Seer become head girl and a have a little romance, but then I realized I'm a horrible romance writer, and I'd rather avoid a Mary-Sue at all costs.  
  
Miss Piratess: Yeah, Eleven-year-old Tom is pretty cute, isn't he? I'll try and fix that later. But right now, I think I'll have a little fun making him look stupid. Haha!  
  
Nikki: No! Am I really a bitch? Please say I'm not. Well, as long as you like the story.  
  
Miss W D Halliwell: Gah! You know I would read your stuff, but it's all slash! Oh well, thanks for reviewing! It's nice to think this is actually original.  
  
Erin: *points* You! You? 


	3. Year One 1938

Author's note: answering questions, here: (all thanks to "someone's" novel of a review... haha)  
  
Okay, so maybe Tom's a little too cute. But this process will still take a few years. And this will be a long story, I'm warning you. I'm trying to stray from drama, for I write way too much of it. It's coming though... slowly. Constant Disney movies are the only way I can make this at all cute.  
  
And Alphard. Yes, Alphard's supposed to be nice. He's the one who gave his fortune to Sirius, after all (OotP pg111) Perhaps he has an 'inner Sirius' to a degree, I don't really know.  
  
Let's see, what else... oh yeah. I guess Tom's hoping the WW will be a happy place. What a disappointment he'll get, huh? He'll be quiet in the background like this until he actually understands things and... well... takes charge, I suppose.  
  
And the question about Simon: he won't be an enemy, so there will be no angsty "I will kill you're son and his son after that" kind of vendetta. The only war is between the Blacks and the Potters, which I think is understandable seeing how Sirius is treated when making friends with James.  
  
Oh, look! A chapter! How'd that happen?  
  
Chapter Three: Year One – 1938  
  
After getting off a normal train at a normal station in a normal looking village, Tom was taken aback when he found he'd be traveling across a misty lake to an ancient castle. It just didn't quite fit. But then again, having a dead witch for a mother didn't quite fit, either.  
  
And yet, where did his dad fit into all this? Had he known all along? How did he die? Was it murder, or natural, or accidental, or was he dead at all? Come to think of it, no one had really said anything about it. He'd asked, but without answer.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sweeping rock of the boat he was settled in. Artemus sat beside him, along with two other boys with equally pale faces, pointing out at the source of the waves.  
  
Something in the center of the lake had been disturbed and was shooting massive plumes of water in the air.  
  
"Alphard told me there was a giant squid that lived in the lake," Artemus muttered.  
  
"Quiet, filthy little mongrels!" boomed an ominous voice from the small boat that led the rest, obscured by the thick fog. "It's enough for me to come out here and escort you brats without you screaming my ears off!"  
  
Artemus stiffened. "He also told me about Ogg."  
  
Ogg didn't sound too pleasant, and Tom concluded he would avoid him at all costs. But Ogg turned out to be the gamekeeper, so he was all in all virtually unavoidable.  
  
Tom followed his fellow first-years through the castle in a daze. Reality didn't fully hit him until they'd all stopped in front of a large oak door. A tall bearded man introduced himself as Professor Dumbledore, and with a cheery smile, ushered the lot of them into a large Dining Hall.  
  
Tom couldn't help but feel small under the gaze of so many older students and professors. Everything around him was ageless and richly foreign to his eyes. Candles floated, the ceiling rumbled in correspondence with the sky, and though this was supposed to be a feast, no food was present.  
  
It was all very odd, but upon remembering his mother's heritage, he knew it was in his blood.  
  
A vague smile played on Tom's young face as Simon quietly explained everything to him. Despite the fact that a talking hat would have normally seemed out of the ordinary, Tom was slowly beginning to like this world he'd been introduced to. After all, it sure beat his life at the orphanage.  
  
Tom was suddenly brought back to the present when someone behind him was called before the staff table. The boy settled himself in the stool – he looked uncomfortable – and moments later, the hat announced he was sorted into Ravenclaw.  
  
"Ravenclaw's for teacher's pets," Simon explained. "Bookworms, you know." Tom tuned in and out as Simon elaborated on the stereotypes of Hogwarts and "Anderson, George!" was called forward to be sorted.  
  
"Hufflepuff!"  
  
Gryffindor, by its cover, was meant for the brave, but over the years had become the center of popularity.  
  
"Bagman, Patrick!"  
  
Simon seemed to take pride in the description as he'd been telling it to Tom.  
  
"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted, and Bagman grinned.  
  
Slytherin, resorted for the purest, was generally full of the snobby, rich folk, and Hufflepuff (meant to be fair to everyone) was supposedly for all the duffers who fit nowhere else.  
  
"Black, Artemus!" That very boy pushed past Tom, and upon having the hat set on his head, muttered something nobody else in the Hall could hear. The ripped seam of the hat twitched slightly, though its reply was just as inaudible.  
  
Almost immediately thereafter, the hat shouted, "Slytherin!"  
  
Tom was about to ask Artemus what he'd said to the Sorting Hat when Artemus silenced him with a disgusted sneer at Simon.  
  
"Dearborn, Caradoc!" then, "Ravenclaw!"  
  
Tom frowned. Artemus was his friend –  
  
"Longbottom, Roger!"  
  
– at least, that's what Tom had thought at first.  
  
"Gryffindor!"  
  
There was the barrier of his heritage... Tom knew by the things Artemus had said that that would always be a factor.  
  
"Malfoy, Driedda!"  
  
But Simon was understanding. He was nice. He didn't care.  
  
"Slytherin!"  
  
Tom knew without a doubt he wouldn't be sorted in Slytherin. It was clear, though somehow he was disappointed.  
  
"Mince, Jaylee!"  
  
He didn't know why he'd ever wanted to be in that house, clearly they were nasty folk –  
  
"Ravenclaw!"  
  
– but something about the pride Artemus and Alphard took, and even beyond that, made Tom feel in exile now that the moment of his own sorting was drawing near.  
  
"Potter, Simon!"  
  
Where did he belong, anyway? Slytherin was out of the question. Ravenclaw? Tom knew nothing of magic, and therefore wouldn't fare well among the more learned. Hufflepuff? He sure hoped not.  
  
"Gryffindor!"  
  
Gryffindor? Tom watched Simon hop off the stool and strut over to his designated table with a grin. Did he belong there? Did he have bravery, or whatever else they required? Upon thinking about it, he didn't seem to fit anywhere.  
  
"Riddle, Tom!"  
  
There were still a few students left behind him to be sorted, but it felt as if he were the only one. He felt like the last, the one everybody paid attention to.  
  
Tom approached the stool, and the man named Dumbledore placed the old hat over his head, but his head was too small to hold it. Tom brought his hands up to lift the over-sized hat above his eyes, and a sudden voice sounded in his ear.  
  
"Stop, I say! That tickles!"  
  
Tom let go of the hat's rim at once, but then asked himself if that truly had been the hat scolding him. Tom's stomach grumbled.  
  
"Hungry, aren't we? I suppose we should hurry this up, then."  
  
Tom bit his lip. The hat appeared to be thinking, for it was mumbling to itself.  
  
"Bravery, perhaps. Or a lack of it, I can't tell. Ambition... but what for? Quite a future you'll see for yourself. Stubborn, this one... but no... clever, very clever. Or is it cunning?"  
  
The hat stopped with a jolt – it nearly slipped off when Tom caught it and held it back in place. The hat spoke again shrewdly, but with a slightly different air of understanding.  
  
"Well, well, I see. It's clear then. Too clear. Slytherin!"  
  
Tom knew the last word spoken had been heard by all, for clapping erupted throughout the hall. Though, Tom noted, it wasn't as enthusiastic as the applause for the others had been. Apparently, word had spread, and would spread, about Tom Riddle – the half blood.  
  
Tom sat at the only vacant seat at the Slytherin table, which, fortunately or not, was next to Artemus. He couldn't tell if Artemus was happy or sick. The rest of the table assumed the latter expression – all except Alphard, who gave him a frank grin.  
  
Finally, when 'Weasley, Bilius' had been sorted into Gryffindor, the Headmaster, who introduced himself as Armando Dippet, announced that as soon as the food appeared, eating would commence.  
  
Appear? How could the food appear? Before Tom could ask someone where the food was, it appeared. Tom sat back, marveling at the wonderful simplicity of magic.  
  
It was obvious that talking would be sparse with everyone stuffing their mouths, but Tom had expected there to be at least some conversation in between bites. Even the other tables were talking.  
  
After a while, Alphard found it his duty to break the awkward silence. He nodded his head at a girl across the table with hair the color of a raven.  
  
"That's Driedda Malfoy," Alphard said. Tom wondered if all Slytherins families knew each other before Hogwarts.  
  
"Don't tell him my name!" she whispered furiously out of the corner of her mouth. Apparently, she thought Tom hadn't heard her, for she smiled pleasantly, and politely inquired of him.  
  
"What side does it... come from?"  
  
"Sorry... does what?"  
  
She sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Your abilities?"  
  
It was amazing to think that despite her condescension, she was just as young and inexperienced as Tom was. "Oh. My mother's."  
  
She did not reply, but smiled vainly and turned away.  
  
"Do they hate me?" Tom asked quietly.  
  
Alphard was about to reply when Artemus cut in with a harsh 'yes'. Alphard shook his head at Artemus and turned back to Tom patiently. "No. They just need to adapt to the idea."  
  
Tom nodded his head, temporarily comforted. He ate little, and when he did, it was only to avoid people asking him questions. He knew he wouldn't be able to answer any of them, for he had questions, himself.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Tom's schedule was amusing to him. Charms? Potions? Defense Against the Dark Arts? This would be interesting.  
  
His first Charms class was generally uneventful. Half the time, Professor Flitwick was trying to organize the books he would be standing on in an arrangement where they wouldn't topple over, and when the stack became too high, he would stop and let his eyes scan across the room for a good volunteer.  
  
It took the best part of five minutes for the class to discover he would never really make a choice, and that they should probably volunteer, themselves.  
  
Tom took this opportunity to ask Artemus about the Sorting the previous night.  
  
"What did you say to the Hat, anyway?"  
  
Artemus blinked at him, and then laughed as understanding struck. "Oh, that. I told it if it didn't sort me in Slytherin I'd personally feed it to the Giant Squid."  
  
Tom was dumbstruck, though he found it funny. "And what did it say back?"  
  
"Said it thought it highly unlikely I could achieve such a thing, and my claim was proof enough of where I belonged."  
  
The professor's volunteer returned to his seat, and Flitwick approached the foot of the mountain. Due to the fact that they had other classes to attend to, none of the students ever got to see if he'd made it to the top.  
  
Potions was an entirely different atmosphere. Even before class, as the student traveled ever deeper beneath the castle, they could tell this wouldn't be a pleasant experience.  
  
Despite the fact that all the Slytherins had been down here before, and would be down here often in order to get to their common room every night, it seemed as if waves of shivers passed through the group. Even Artemus seemed apprehensive.  
  
But Tom – he couldn't help but feel excited.  
  
The room smelled of dust and mold, along with indistinct aromas of unidentifiable things that no doubt had been sealed in jars for centuries.  
  
"My name is Opheodrys if you are bold, though I wouldn't recommend it. I'm simply Professor Malfoy for those of you who wish to be at all successful in this class."  
  
After Professor Malfoy had scrutinized every Gryffindor with a single look, he addressed the whole class.  
  
"Today will not to be simple, I'll warn you. Potions is not a simple course. It is an art. You must – "  
  
A hand rose in the air. "Uncle?"  
  
The professor closed his eyes, as if the title were a bullet to his head, but smiled nonetheless. "Yes, Driedda, dear."  
  
"I thought it would be necessary that we all know Tom Riddle is in this class. Just as a warning."  
  
A *warning*? Wasn't that going a tad bit too far?  
  
Tom eyed the bubbling cauldron at the front of the class. He wondered what was in it, and whether or not it would be lethal to the drinker.  
  
The professor raised his eyebrows.  
  
Tom doubted it. It was, after all, only their first lesson.  
  
Simon spoke up from the back. "Well so am I. So are you. Let's get on with it."  
  
The professor only credited Simon with an annoyed glance, but his gaze returned to Tom. Apparently, he'd heard the news, for he seemed intrigued.  
  
Look away, look away.  
  
"Mr. Riddle?"  
  
Tom was surprised to find he had voice in him. "Sir?"  
  
The professor opened his mouth as if to say something, but something stopped him. He hadn't thought better of it, more rather, something more subconscious had.  
  
The lesson continued without interruption, and Driedda Malfoy seemed to have sunken in her seat. She hadn't gotten the show she'd been hoping for.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Ahhh.... If ever there were someone to mentor a Dark Lord-to-be, it would be a Malfoy. 


	4. Rights to Property

Chapter Four: Rights to Property (an oddly paradoxical title, but I couldn't think of anything better) "The Cloak" seemed too simple.  
  
~~  
  
"If they see me talking to you, they'll honestly torture me about it."  
  
Simon sighed. "The thing about the Blacks you must know is that despite how vengeful and nasty they can be, they're still ignorant and careless about their enemies." Tom didn't seem to see the relevance, and Simon elaborated. "They won't be looking for you, trust me."  
  
It was Friday afternoon, classes were over, and the weather had turned viciously cold. But despite the chill, chatting about the coming Quidditch season wouldn't cease. Snow or not, Gryffindor and Slytherin would compete tomorrow.  
  
Professor Malfoy passed them in the hallway, gave Tom and Simon an unreadable frown, and Tom was suddenly reminded of his weariness. "It's only been a month and I'm already sick of Potions," he said.  
  
"I know what you mean. It's the Professor. He looks at me like I'm off my rocker every time I answer a question right."  
  
"He doesn't like me, but he doesn't say anything."  
  
"Probably thinks I asked a Slytherin for the answer. He looked surprised I even knew anything."  
  
"He frightens me."  
  
"He's a nutter. Nutters are frightening."  
  
"Doesn't seem to like his niece much."  
  
Simon laughed. "Who would?"  
  
"But besides that, he's just... strange."  
  
Simon looked past Tom and bit his lip. Tom could tell he was doing some quick thinking, and he wasn't exactly sure whether that was a good thing.  
  
"I heard him talking about things to Don Evans, you know him, right?"  
  
Don Evans was a Slytherin Prefect, and was rarely lenient about anything. Tom nodded for him to continue.  
  
"Well, he said something about Grindelwald, and Don got all excited. He said he would talk to him on Friday after classes were over."  
  
"Isn't that now?"  
  
Simon nodded his head slowly.  
  
"So?"  
  
"I think we should go."  
  
"Go? How are we supposed to do that?"  
  
"I don't know," Simon said, but he seemed to have a million things in mind, because a vague grin was fluttering across his features.  
  
"Why? It's probably just about a test score."  
  
Simon shook his head at Tom, and raised his eyebrows gravely. "I've never seen anyone excited upon hearing Grindelwald's name. It's just not right."  
  
"What are you suggesting?"  
  
Simon lowered his voice, and stopped walking. "Malfoy's probably not a very, er, good wizard. Meaning, morals aren't very high in his priorities."  
  
"You think he supports Grindelwald?"  
  
"I think he's getting Don worked up about it. Either way, I want to find out."  
  
Tom stopped his thoughts from racing. There was one missing element. "Who's Grindelwald?"  
  
Simon gave him a look of exasperation. "You know, don't you? I told – "  
  
"No. Why's he so famous? What's he doing over there in Germany that's so awful?"  
  
Simon stared at him open-mouthed, realizing and admitting that he wasn't too sure, himself. "No one'll talk about it."  
  
"Do they say anything?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What?"  
  
"War."  
  
Tom felt his body grow cold. He spoke with difficulty. "War?"  
  
"Well, at least the muggles are getting worked up about something. They've got their own Grindelwald. Can't quite remember his name, though. It was something Hitler, but it sounds like it'll be big."  
  
Tom decided to take his mind back to dwell on smaller things. "How'll we find out about Malfoy?"  
  
The halls were devoid of students and teachers, and Simon's voice rose to a normal level. "We'd need... no. But maybe, no that would take too long."  
  
Tom's eyes moved back and forth as they followed Simon's pacing figure.  
  
"What would be perfect," he said finally with a mix of triumph at his plan, and disappointment that it was beyond his grasp, "is an invisibility cloak."  
  
A sharp intake of breath gave Tom away.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You mean those silvery blanket things?"  
  
Simon's frown shattered and gave way to an awed smile. "You've seen one?"  
  
Tom had no room for evasiveness. "Yes."  
  
"Where?"  
  
Tom plunged in without preamble. "I saw it when Artemus was unpacking – " It was the instant when Simon's eyes lit up that Tom realized his mistake.  
  
A small trickle of students was pioneering around the corner and past Tom and Simon to the Dining Hall. Dinner was already going to start.  
  
Tom found this as the opportune moment to discourage Simon. "It's already too late. There's no use, and besides, I doubt Artemus would agree."  
  
Simon's mirth grew evident in his face. A grin was spreading. "He doesn't have to agree."  
  
It was the issue with the Blacks. If it were any other person, Tom knew Simon would already be done away with the idea. A mere thought – a whim, and nothing else.  
  
But no, this was deeper – in the family. This was a blood war.  
  
"It's too late anyway. We've no use for the cloak now, forget it."  
  
But Simon shook his head again, and began to follow the dense crowd of students that was hoarding the hallway by now, leaving Tom to follow him, too upset with himself for giving away names to ask what in the world Simon might be plotting.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was too good to pass up. This much, Simon knew was true. Maybe he was going about it the wrong way. Maybe he was being a little selfish and a little more provoking. Maybe he was starting a fire he wouldn't be able to stop. Maybe it was none of his business. Maybe he didn't really have a need for the cloak, anyway. Maybe he never would.  
  
But it was just too good to pass up. He never saw himself as obsessive over trivial things, but in a small way, he was. He had to rise above Artemus Black.  
  
Some subconscious yearning to avenge his father drove him. He didn't realize it, but his real quarrel was with Artemus's father. However, since that was too far above his head, he resorted to the junior version, who was equally dislikable.  
  
Simon could see Artemus glaring at him from across the Quidditch pitch. Somehow, he'd coaxed Artemus to place his cloak in a bet, throwing in his own Rememberall. He'd seemed suspicious when Simon had announced the entire play as if he'd known the future by heart, but perhaps that's what had made him decide in the end it was lunacy, and that he would surely win.  
  
Simon grinned as Weller scored, the Keeper veered to the right to avoid a stray bludger, the Gryffindor beater was fouled by the Slytherin beater, and the Gryffindor seeker caught the snitch bringing the score to a good 170:20.  
  
The Gryffindor side exploded with cheer, and Artemus was the only Slytherin standing. His mouth was wide open, much to Simon's amusement.  
  
Tom frowned. "What is it?"  
  
Alphard patted his petrified sibling on the shoulder. "Accept it, mate. We lost."  
  
"No, but... Weller... and the foul..."  
  
Simon laughed from where he was, leaving his seat and returning to the castle.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"How'd you know?" Artemus demanded the next day. He had Simon by the shoulders, though he was a good inch shorter.  
  
"I believe you owe me a cloak."  
  
"I do not! How'd you know? Tell me!"  
  
"Know what?" Simon asked, trying to assume a look of innocence. He failed.  
  
"The whole game! The play, the score – everything! How'd you know?"  
  
"A mere guess," Simon answered offhandedly. "Does it matter? I won, didn't I?"  
  
"You did not – no... no, I'm taking this to Dippet."  
  
"Would I do any good in his stead?" asked a hoarse voice from behind Artemus. It was the Transfiguration teacher.  
  
"Hello, Professor," Simon said cheerily, though with a hint of apprehension.  
  
Dumbledore nodded politely, and then addressed Artemus.  
  
"Professor, sir, Simon an' I had a bet, see? And we – "  
  
"A bet," Dumbledore said admonishingly. "You should know better than to invest in gambling, Mr. Black. Especially in a school game."  
  
"But, Professor!" he cried in exasperation. "Simon knew the whole outcome of the game. He tricked me!"  
  
Dumbledore gave Simon a good hard look, and then smiled. "I dare say gambling is a risky business, isn't it Mr. Potter?"  
  
Simon nodded, a little frightened by the aging man.  
  
"Well?" Dumbledore said frankly. "What were the stakes?"  
  
Artemus stared at his teacher with an utter look of incomprehension. Dumbledore seemed more interested in the crime than the punishment.  
  
"A Rememberall versus an invisibility cloak," Simon answered in his rival's stead.  
  
"My invisibility cloak," Artemus intervened.  
  
"Quite a hefty bet, isn't it, Mr. Black?"  
  
"Why, I guess so, Professor, sir."  
  
"Then isn't your own doing that you lost it?"  
  
"But, Professor!"  
  
"Couldn't you have easily turned Mr. Potter down upon his request?"  
  
"He cheated, sir!"  
  
Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head. "And there's no wonder why gambling is prohibited on these school grounds."  
  
Artemus made a strangled sound of indignation.  
  
"You're lucky I'm not reporting this to the Headmaster, Mr. Black. Quite a violation of these here school rules. Perhaps I should settle this, myself."  
  
He winked at Simon, who was just as stunned as Artemus. As soon as he had muttered "Accio cloak", Simon's prize came floating around the corner of the stone hallway, and into his hands.  
  
"Good day to the both of you."  
  
Artemus slowly closed his mouth as he watched Dumbledore's retreating figure. His face grew scarlet, and his hair shook.  
  
"You can give that here, Potter," he hissed.  
  
Simon smiled. "Nope. This here is a victory for me." He turned on his heel, and left Artemus seething in the middle of the corridor.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~ 


	5. A Start

Chapter Five: A Start  
  
~~  
  
Tom was slightly troubled for a moment. He'd heard Simon's side of the story, which had sounded triumphant, and Artemus's side of the story... which was what troubled him.  
  
Dumbledore seemed biased, and somewhat ominous on Tom's part. And not to mention, Artemus seemed innocent, which must have been a rare thing, indeed.  
  
Things weren't fitting with the puzzle he'd laid out for himself. He was determined to get to the bottom of people, to understand them, to be able to predict what they would do. And yet, maybe it was his own perspective that was distorting the facts.  
  
Though Tom had to admit Artemus had it coming, he couldn't help but wonder how Simon had known the entire outcome of the Quidditch game.  
  
He inquired of it the next day, only to see Simon grinning thoughtfully again. He seemed to do that a lot.  
  
"A certain Ravenclaw told me."  
  
"Who? How'd they know?"  
  
Simon chuckled to himself. "Lovegood. His dad knows my dad, so naturally..." He looked at Tom, who didn't seem to be catching any of this. "Look, it doesn't matter."  
  
"No," Tom persisted. "I want to know."  
  
Simon scratched behind his ear. "Pushy lad, aren't you? Alright, if you must know, he was a Seer."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"A Seer. He Sees... look, never mind."  
  
"You mean, he could tell the future?"  
  
"Sure." Simon waved a hand. "But you can't go around telling people. Only Dippet and the teachers know."  
  
"Can he read thoughts, too?"  
  
Simon rolled his eyes. "How should I know? Besides, the point is, you really can't make a big deal out of this. People would never talk to him."  
  
"I don't even know the guy. What was his name, again?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Forget it."  
  
Tom tried, but couldn't possibly.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Even with closed windows, Tom could feel the weather chilling him. He serenely watched the snow fall, contemplating the impenetrable boredom that had settled upon him as the uneventful holidays had swept by.  
  
No gifts, no cards, not even a hello. Everyone who recognized him was either too curious about him to make conversation, despised him too much to acknowledge his presence, or was enjoying the holidays with their own families.  
  
The worst of it all was the isolation. The utter isolation. Tom didn't have the money for an owl, so any hope of contact with the Blacks or the Potters inevitably rested upon whether they decided to send their own owl with a letter attached. Even a note, Tom prayed.  
  
Inside the common room and wandering around the library aimlessly, Tom had found that the idea of being forgotten was scaring him beyond all reason and toleration.  
  
Just as much as he couldn't be forgotten, Tom Riddle could not forget things so easily. Hours in the library, searching through books about seers, oracles, physical mediums, augurs, prophets, prognosticators, soothsayers and shamans hadn't satisfied the matter in the least bit.  
  
But today was the last day. Today the students would be returning, and today would be the last day without classes to worry about. But oddly enough, Tom was anticipating class like never before. He needed someone to ask about the pressing questions he had.  
  
Figuring the feast was close enough, Tom slid off his four-poster, trudged down the steps, and through the empty Slytherin common room.  
  
As soon as Tom had started pushing his way out through the stone wall, a figure came down the passage from the opposite way, knocking him off balance, and back onto the cold, stone floor of the common room.  
  
"Sorry," the person mumbled, but spun around when they had caught a glimpse of their victim's face. "Tom, old friend!"  
  
Tom scrambled up hastily, brushed off his robes, and mumbled his hello to Alphard. "Artemus was coming in just behind me," he said, turning his head in acknowledgement of his brother's entrance. He was grinning.  
  
With no trace of a greeting, Artemus dashed past Tom and up the stairs to the boy's dormitories, chuckling to himself.  
  
"What's he so happy about?" Tom asked without turning around.  
  
"Oh, he's just been really excited since finding a way to get back at Simon Potter."  
  
Something in Tom's head sparked. "I see."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Just watch," Artemus whispered out of the side of his mouth to Tom. They were both seated at the Slytherin table, their backs to the wall, facing the Gryffindors on the other side of the Hall.  
  
Tom smiled to himself as Artemus shifted his head to the side in order to see around a Ravenclaw's protruding head. "Come on, come on, take a drink..."  
  
According to Artemus's brilliant plan, there was a powerful sleeping draught in Simon's pumpkin juice. However, Tom had found the war between the two highly entertaining, so he found it his duty to lend a hand in keeping it up.  
  
Simon's figure was nearly indistinct from across the Hall, but both Slytherins could clearly tell that he was raising a toast in their general direction, smiling as broadly as his face would allow.  
  
Artemus seemed slightly suspicious as Simon drained his entire goblet with relish – but not nearly suspicious enough, Tom thought as Artemus took a drink from his own goblet.  
  
He found himself shaking his head as his neighbor buried his head in the mashed potatoes, snoring. With a grin, Tom raised his glass to Simon in return.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Classes began as usual the following day, and Artemus didn't seem to have figured out Simon's trick as of yet.  
  
Snickers rolled and echoed across the room and off the walls as Professor Malfoy announced to the Slytherins and Gryffindors what they would be learning in class that day.  
  
Swiftly, and without the flourishing marks of an imperfect script, the chalk magically scratched the ingredients and instructions for making a basic Sleeping Draught onto the chalkboard.  
  
Perhaps it was coincidence. Either way, Artemus was sinking in his seat.  
  
Tom wondered if he hadn't told Simon about the drugged pumpkin juice, if he'd have figured it out anyway... after all, with a friend like that Ravenclaw – what was his name, anyway?  
  
Tom found himself spacing out, looking through the wall, imagining what his life would be like if he knew everything that would happen, if he knew what everyone was thinking, if he could stop them before they made a mistake, or betrayed him, or...  
  
The bell rang, and Tom found himself telling Artemus to go ahead without him.  
  
The professor didn't even notice him when he approached his desk, or so it seemed to Tom.  
  
"Er... Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"It's Professor to you," he growled without looking up.  
  
"Professor, sir?"  
  
Malfoy closed his book loudly; clearly trying to show his annoyance in hope that Tom would go away.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Information, sir. Whatever you may know."  
  
The professor glanced up, noting Tom's eagerness. His voice softened in spite of himself. "What would you like to know?" he asked patiently.  
  
"The future," Tom blurted.  
  
The professor chuckled, standing up from his seat, and walking around the desk. "And what would I know of that? Ask you Divination teacher." With that, he dismissed the matter.  
  
"I'm only a first year, sir."  
  
The professor sighed, only hoping he would be able to keep from strangling the boy. "So you are," he said dully. "Well, I know nothing of the matter. Good day." He turned his back to the student, talking long, swift strides towards the storage cupboard in hopes that Tom would leave.  
  
"But sir," Tom continued, following Malfoy across the classroom. "I don't want to know the future quite like that."  
  
The professor gave him a queer look.  
  
"I want to know about Seers, you know? People who can see everything – with, you know..." Tom trailed off.  
  
"Full control?" the professor offered without looking at Tom. He seemed to be considering the boy silently.  
  
"Exactly," came Tom's breathless reply. Someone understood his fascination.  
  
The professor smiled to himself – the first real smile Tom had seen on his face. "What about it?"  
  
"How can I do that?"  
  
"Oh, dear boy, you can't."  
  
"I – I can't – why not?"  
  
Malfoy shook his head again. Either he was having a hard time with this, or he found the boy's persistence amusing – Tom couldn't quite tell from where he stood.  
  
"There's nothing you can do about it. But there is..." He stopped, unsure whether explaining the alternative would be right.  
  
"Is what? Sir."  
  
"There's another way."  
  
"What? What is it?" Tom found himself bent upon the answer.  
  
The professor's eyes were skyward, and his face was momentarily shadowed. "People's past and present, if that interests you."  
  
It did. "It does."  
  
The professor half-closed his eyes, his face showing intense thought. "I shouldn't. I'm not sure I'm the right one to – "  
  
"If this is about my Sorting and people's problems with it..." Tom faltered for a moment. "I have every right to be a Slytherin. Perhaps more than others."  
  
The professor raised his eyebrows. "Your reasoning behind that?" he asked mildly.  
  
"If the Sorting Hat found me so much of a Slytherin that it... it overlooked my background... then perhaps that outweighs the rest?"  
  
Malfoy was looking at him intently, and Tom had the fleeting sensation of one looking through glass. He was transparent, obvious, readable, open... wide open.  
  
"Or," Malfoy said after a while. "Perhaps it is quite the opposite."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Perhaps your background has everything to do with it." His voice had a misty, thoughtful sound to it, and to Tom, it was quite unnerving.  
  
"But sir, the present, if you please?"  
  
"Sorry? Oh yes, Legilimency."  
  
"Sir?" Tom repeated.  
  
"Mind raiding. Beyond your years, forget it."  
  
Tom's mouth dropped open. How could people just ask him to forget these things so easily? "I will not," he said with a rush of power. "I can do it."  
  
"Pushy lad, aren't you?" The professor was almost surprised... and pleased?  
  
"That's what people are telling me."  
  
"Well, you ask me later about that. Or perhaps something... more your level."  
  
"But, sir!"  
  
"Not today lad."  
  
That was the day Tom realized that Professor Malfoy could be just as stubborn as he could. Perhaps that was what started it all...  
  
Tom left the classroom without another word, wondering faintly if lunch was over yet.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Reviews!  
  
Awkward: Ten points for you and your long reviews. I love them. Yeah, I guess I have been keeping Tom in the dark, but he'll be stepping up soon... I hope... and I hope you're happy because I put in some Simon/Tom cooperation/mischief just for your sake. But just realize they'll have to split up sometime. Probably once Tom gets a bit of a nasty attitude.  
  
Miss Piratess: He'll be evil, someday, I swear! Why do you like Driedda, of all people? *feels obligated to write more of her* Ergh. You know, it was so much easier just writing 'Nixiy'.  
  
Nikki: You scared me there for a moment, I thought I'd made a mistake! But yes, that's why he'll use Voldemort, so no one recognizes him as Tom. Except maybe Artemus, but he'll have a family by then, and probably won't care.  
  
Erin: Nope. James = 70's (wah, disco!) and Tom = 40's. In fact, Tom's supposed to be almost as old as McGonagall, which is really kind of scary... 


	6. The Unexpected Fear

AN: The source of my inspiration, a.k.a. the plotbunny, was out playing with the easter bunny this weekend. Hence, the slow update.  
  
Reviews!  
  
Miss Piratess (or the artist formerly known as Nixiy): Randomly bestowing affection must be fun.  
  
Nikki: Most of the Death Eaters that will follow him later will be people who never even knew Tom Riddle. His 'closest friends' who he confides in are going to be Artemus, a kid named Jeremy Cotter, and (of all people) Driedda Malfoy. Artemus won't be a death eater, but Driedda and Jeremy will just have to keep their secret for fear of murder. *Sigh* I better stop before I end up telling you the whole story.  
  
Awkward: Yes. And is a best friend of mine, and I'm sure I use it excessively. And, yeah, I can never avoid the Seer thing, but I needed something to trigger Tom's obsession over power, control, etc. Yes, the year went by fast, but that's because it was pretty uneventful. The next year will be worse (one chapter, methinks), but the third will be huge, so... yeah. Can't rush, but I'm just so impatient.  
  
Erin: llamas are fun. And give me back that plotbunny – I had to use my sarcasm again.  
  
~~  
  
Chapter Six: The Unexpected Fear  
  
~~  
  
History of Magic had never been a class anyone would consider to be exciting – ever. In fact, so little of any real significance happened during that hour of the day, that most students took the teacher's lack of attention for granted, and slept.  
  
But sometime after the students had been assigned two rolls of parchment on the history of goblin rebellions and their influence on the dealings of wizards in the late eighteenth century, news caught fire that the staff room had burnt up over the weekend.  
  
Logically, with a castle so large, not many had known until word had spread about it. All the teachers had gotten out safely – all except one.  
  
Subsequently, it was the Headmaster's sad duty to announce at dinner that Professor Francis Binns had slept through the entire ordeal, and died while doing so.  
  
The first reaction was joy, in which nobody really had to complete the villainous essay. But then, as things settled down, a few of them felt a bit sorry for the old man.  
  
So, naturally, it came as a shock to every student the next time they showed to their class, expecting nothing more than a younger, stricter professor that had the mind to look up every so often to make sure the class was still existent. What they found, however, was Binns.  
  
Judging by the way he continued the lesson, the students wondered if he realized he'd actually died – he certainly didn't address the matter, but merely asked them in that dreadfully monotonous voice to hand in their essays.  
  
The class groaned, wondering if it would be wise to inform him of his own demise. Apparently, they'd decided against it, for they eventually fell back into their routine slumber.  
  
Tom's birthday came by as well, though he told no one. For some reason he found it didn't matter. He didn't expect presents, anyway, and it'd be a bit vain to announce the day as a celebration for himself.  
  
So, he kept quiet. He was twelve, after all, and that was an accomplishment enough to make him happy.  
  
Despite that note, the following months rolled on without question, without mishap, without discrepancy, without variation, without a single blink of anything out of place. It was nearly terrifying.  
  
But for Tom, it was vaguely beneficial – that way he knew what to expect for the murderously repetitive years ahead.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Testing," their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher muttered loudly with dull dislike. With the end of the year approaching, testing had fallen upon the students, and more especially, Professor Morgan. "Can't stand it."  
  
She was easily one of their more peculiar teachers. Her hair was a vapid gray, with hints of a younger crimson reaching down nearly to her knees. Even with glasses that sat on a nose too small to hold them, she squinted at everything she saw. Some concluded the expression was permanent.  
  
"Does that mean we're not testing?" asked a hopeful voice from the back.  
  
"No," she answered dryly. "That means you're cleaning out my furniture."  
  
An incredulous and vaguely amused murmur rippled throughout.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
"You heard me," she answered in offhand, dull tones. "There's a boggart that's made a snug home for itself, and I'd rather have you do away with it than waste my own energy."  
  
"Isn't that something third years would have to learn about?" Driedda whimpered.  
  
"Maybe by the book," the professor replied. "But I'm not holding a book, now am I?"  
  
The class was torn between anticipation of something above their level, and dread of something that strayed from simplicity.  
  
She sighed impatiently. "Oh, hush. It's nothing complicated. You see the blighter, it turns into what you fear most, you think of a way to humiliate the poor thing, and let the next student have a go."  
  
The class blinked owlishly.  
  
"Sounds easy enough," Artemus muttered in confidence to Tom, who in turn raised an eyebrow.  
  
"And for education's sake, to destroy it, you say Riddikulus. Say it now."  
  
The class murmured an echo.  
  
Professor Morgan clapped her hands unenthusiastically. "Brilliant," she said dryly. "Any takers?"  
  
Tom gave Artemus a nudge in the shoulder, who'd gone rigid. Rolling his eyes when nobody volunteered, Tom leaned his weight suddenly on Artemus, who in turn toppled over.  
  
The professor smiled wryly. "Mr. Black, how lovely."  
  
He took an uncertain step backward towards the cupboard in question, his eyes shooting daggers at Tom. He looked back to the teacher, worry etching slightly around the corners of his mouth. "What do I do again, Professor?"  
  
"Oh, does anyone listen?"  
  
The class said nothing.  
  
She suddenly grew overwhelmingly patient. "All right, Mr. Black. Imagine what you fear the most – " She turned her head to address the rest of them. "And all of you as well – imagine a way to... how should I say this... make it funny... enough to dispel your fear, at least."  
  
Artemus nodded his head quickly. "Er... but, Professor?"  
  
The patience shattered. "Just open the cupboard," she snapped.  
  
From Tom's point of view, which was obscured immensely by Driedda Malfoy's head, nothing really happened. No cataclysmic event, no blood curdling scream. Not from the class, at least. Artemus was horrified to see his father advancing on him, though.  
  
Tom stifled a grin – he feared his dad. But his face fell when he took note of the man's wand and heartless expression.  
  
The boy, suddenly aware of his lack of stature, shut his eyes tight, and attempted a feeble smile.  
  
The man, Mr. Black as Tom remembered from King's Cross, suddenly popped into a outrageously feminine household apron, holding a giant pot full of cooked noodles. His son stepped back to admire his work, a sly grin creeping upon his features.  
  
Professor Morgan motioned another student to step up, looking rather bored with the situation, and relieved that she needn't any further involvement.  
  
As Jeremy Cotter approached his boggart, a thought occurred to Tom. Did he know what he feared? Did he fear anything? It was silly to think there was nothing in store for him, but his mind was drawing a blank.  
  
He supposed the most negative influence in his life so far had been the orphanage, but even over time, Tom had found away to rise above the thought of that place. It held waiting a blanket of misery for him, but no real fear.  
  
Only after half the alphabet had passed did Tom realize the professor was going in order by last name. He was surprised – she rarely did anything in a predictable manner.  
  
An uplifting and intoxicating rush of curiosity swept over Tom Riddle as he heard his name called. This couldn't be natural, he thought, to anticipate his fear. But he really had no idea what it could be. It was a waiting surprise, a revelation from behind a closed door.  
  
Yet, a shadow of uncertainty was creeping around the edges of his mind as he approached the boggart, with effort to speed up the prolonged moment, it seemed. Could curiosity really conquer fear?  
  
He doubted it – and that doubt was what allowed him begin to dread what was coming when the boggart assumed its form.  
  
Crack. The figure shifted, grasping and absorbing in fascination Tom's inner, subliminal thoughts – thoughts he'd never been aware of until now.  
  
It was a shock, yes. But nothing to frighten anyone, especially himself. It was his own figure, sprawled and yet peaceful on the ground, a pale angelic white – a touch too pale, but Tom was too enthralled in the enigma to notice.  
  
What was there to be afraid of? The class hushed involuntarily. Was he sleeping? How could that scare him? He'd slept plenty of times before...  
  
Why was the class suddenly so worried? Whisperings, secrets, rumors behind him... Tom found the answer staring back at him as he, at long last, noticed his eyes. They were deathly blank, fixed upon him, possessing a younger body – his twelve year old body – but they were open, lidless, fathomless, crimson, bloody crimson... a drip of that crimson slipped from his mouth, lips slightly parted in death.  
  
Amusement was far from his mind now, and his childish curiosity had all but fled.  
  
It was like swallowing stones when he took another breath. He was dead. Twelve years of living and he feared the end of it.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"It's not all that bad," Artemus told him on their way to Potions. He'd seemed a little unnerved by the sight as well, but he hadn't taken it as seriously as Tom was now.  
  
Jeremy Cotter had joined them. "Everyone dies, you know."  
  
"But..." Tom was tumbling over his words. "I – I'm just – I'm too young to die!"  
  
Artemus laughed, which only exasperated Tom the further. "You're not gonna die, trust me. Not yet."  
  
"I never want to die!"  
  
The thought of something so final, inevitable, condemning, unbending... it was uncomfortable and incredibly disturbing. Once he crossed the line, slipped past the edge, fell below the surface... there was no coming back.  
  
"We're all going to snuff it someday," Jeremy said bluntly – somewhat out of turn, Tom thought, as he barely knew the kid. He was a Slytherin, though, and a friend of Artemus's. Tom said nothing in return.  
  
They'd arrived in front of the Potions classroom for the year's final test. Tom entered casually, showing no sign of distress in front of his fellow peers – many of whom had witnessed his boggart.  
  
The test was simple, therefore hardly enough distraction for Tom at the time, but at least some things were certain to be for his benefit. He knew he was going to ace this.  
  
Potions for color changing, potions for sleep, potions for curing small ailments, potions for growing hair faster, but surely nothing to conquer death.  
  
Perhaps next year, fifth year, seventh year? Would there ever be an answer? Surely not, the issue of death was widespread in the Wizarding World – people mourned over it, magical and muggle alike. Surely, if there were some way to stop it, people wouldn't be dead... war wouldn't scare anybody one bit.  
  
Was war really upon them? Tom was too young to really know, too young to really care.  
  
Not to mention, too young to be worrying about the day he died. Yet he did, and at times he felt the child leave him as he contemplated times when childhood would be all but lost forever to him.  
  
He was twelve – young, healthy, and preferably careless.  
  
Averting Professor Malfoy's interested gaze, Tom handed in his completed test – flawless.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
AN: Finally, the drama makes its grand entrance! 


	7. Riddles

AN: Sorry this is taking so long. I've got testing, and all is hectic. Not to mention, my computer's down, so I've got random friends attempting to do this for me.  
  
"It's the hard knock life... for us... it's the hard knock life for us! No one cares for YOU a smidge, when you're in an or-phan-age!" Good luck getting that song out of your head after reading this.  
  
~~  
  
Chapter Seven: Riddles  
  
~~  
  
It was with a heavy heart and a troubled mind that Tom Riddle returned to his orphanage. Under the surface of all the recent events and issues, Tom couldn't help but frown at the fact that what had become his entire life, the first thing he could be proud of that belonged to him, would have to be kept secret through the coming summer.  
  
Mrs. Wentworth hadn't picked him up from King's Cross – Tom had known all too well she wouldn't have been able to muster that much decency. Instead, there'd stood a young girl – a young woman to Tom – who'd looked like she had to have been no more than seventeen.  
  
She had the softest voice Tom had ever heard. She was a muggle with a driver's license and too much time on her hands, which was precisely the reason the orphanage had sent her.  
  
The car had started, by some mechanical genius – and a key. Nothing spectacular in Tom's view, though to any other wizard it would have been a spectacle to see anything work efficiently simply by the laws of nature.  
  
Tom watched the countless trees and buildings pass beyond the window until the young woman's voice cut into his thoughts.  
  
"So, you're Tom Riddle?"  
  
His eyes didn't leave the window. He made an affirmative grunt.  
  
"I heard about you," she said, and Tom turned to look at her. Her eyes were on the road. "From some of the children, I mean."  
  
"Children?"  
  
She smiled, glancing at him. "There are still children back at the orphanage, Tom. Nothing's changed."  
  
"You work there?"  
  
"No, I live there."  
  
Tom frowned. "But I've never seen you before."  
  
"Of course you haven't," she replied plainly. "I was raised in Little Whinging... Surrey, you know?"  
  
It sounded familiar.  
  
"Well, they moved me to the one here, at least until I'm old enough to leave."  
  
Tom fell into silence – a silence that was easily broken again.  
  
"My name's Lillian Greenwood. Lily, preferably."  
  
"Tom Riddle," he muttered. Lily laughed. "I knew that."  
  
It was an awkward moment enough without her laughing at him, though he knew she meant well.  
  
Slowly, but surely, the dreary outline of the orphanage was coming into view among the other buildings that crowded it. It seemed duller than ever.  
  
As Tom remembered it, that summer had been one of the worst. Too many had asked him of his whereabouts. This new school they asked of... Tom used no discretion in telling them it was called Hogwarts. None of them knew about it, and besides, most of them were small children anyway, and they'd lap anything up.  
  
The more inquisitive and older children heard the rumor, and asked the heads of the orphanage about it. The heads, who knew Tom's secret, all denied the existence of such a school profusely, and punished Tom for letting it slip.  
  
Brian Dursley wouldn't take any stories, though. He wanted to know.  
  
"Some place in Scotland," Tom muttered in reply, scrubbing the floors harder. This was the result of telling the honest truth to a bunch of little children who would have taken it any other way.  
  
Brian leaned against the wall, extracted a wad of lint from his pockets, which he casually dropped in front of Tom's nose and onto the floor. Tom scrubbed it away, glaring up at the idiot.  
  
"Scotland, eh? I don't suppose this is a school to shape you up," He grinned, "because they're not doing much of a job with that, are they?"  
  
"Special school," Tom muttered.  
  
"Are you special, now?" Brian's voice was mockingly skeptical, his eyes filled with cruel mirth.  
  
Tom stood. "Maybe I thought getting away from rotters like you would be nice for a change."  
  
Brian toed the shining floor, and suddenly swept his foot across it, knocking over the bucket of soapy water Tom had been working with.  
  
"Maybe leaving would be nice," he answered, giving Tom a good shove. "How 'bout the next room? That one's gotten pretty dirty."  
  
Tom shoved back, his lips tight.  
  
Brian grinned, and clenched his fists. "But I guess you can't leave, now can you?" He indicated the spilled water. "You've already got a nasty mess in here."  
  
Ah, the mess. It could have been gone in a second. Simple spell, really. So were a lot of curses that suddenly came to mind.  
  
But, no... this ragged cloth would have to do.  
  
"I'll leave you to your work," Brian said, mistaking this moment as a victory for himself as he turned his back on Tom.  
  
No, these fists would have to do....  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Tom was quickly caught, the fight quickly stopped, the Riddle boy quickly punished. It seemed the cleaning would never end.  
  
Lily Greenwood, wanted or not, continued to befriend Tom. It was a comfort to know someone was on his side... but at the moment, company wasn't the best thing for his anger. It was only a motivation for him to say something harsh.  
  
She sat in a chair by the door with nothing productive to say, only watching Tom wash the windows... the cloth going back and forth, back and forth.  
  
"'S rotten, isn't it?" she mused after a while.  
  
"What is?" Tom asked, an ironic reply. Many things were rotten... but what could be bothering her as much as him?  
  
"Oh... things. Secrets..."  
  
Tom dropped the rag, turning around. His face was incredulous. "Sorry?"  
  
Lily smiled. "You know. Keeping secrets."  
  
Lily was a muggle. According to her kind, there was no one else in the world but them. They knew everything. What secret could she keep?  
  
"What secret?" Tom asked, reflecting his musings.  
  
Lily smiled. "Must be hard. Coming back from Hogwarts, I mean."  
  
"What?" Hogwarts didn't exist.  
  
"The things you do there. It's completely different." She laughed, mirthless but still warm. "And here you are, washing the windows. I'm so sorry."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Hogwarts," she replied. She was five years his senior – could she really be that gullible?  
  
"That was a story," he answered dismissively. "I thought the children might like it." He picked up his discarded rag and continued his chore, willing Lily to stop before she started asking questions.  
  
"They did like it," she said. Tom had his back to her, but no matter, he could hear her smiling.  
  
"Well, then there's no use playing off the idea. I'm going to a school in Scotland... for gifted, er, well, for students. Like me."  
  
"Yes," she said, as if it were obvious. "Hogwarts."  
  
Tom hadn't felt the anger until at that moment, it burst. He threw the rag at the window, spinning around. "There is no Hogwarts!" He hadn't said it loudly, really, or harshly... only emphatically. But it seemed enough to quiet her.  
  
There was a moment in which Lily didn't react, and Tom thought fleetingly of apologizing. Perhaps he'd really hurt her.  
  
But, no. She smiled, winked at him, and left the room with a farewell over her shoulder.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sure, this summer may have been bad, miserable, even. But the mystery it held was what stood out in Tom's memory. Much of the mystery surrounded this Lillian Greenwood, but a bit more revolved around a certain overheard conversation his last day.  
  
It was nearly autumn, now. Still summer, in a sense, but the northern breeze had come early. Dragging his tightly locked trunk behind him, Tom noticed a window to his left. Through the glass, he caught a glimpse of the day.  
  
London wore September well. Tom corrected himself with a groan – it was still August, and he wasn't at school yet.  
  
His trunk seemed especially heavy now. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the relief, the anxiety, the excitement... the misery... the joy...  
  
The utter confusion of battling emotions. He was hungry, too.  
  
He dropped his trunk, and sat himself on the top. It was early morning, the post had probably just dropped off. Indeed, Tom noticed one of the heads heading to the office with a stack of letters in their hands.  
  
Sighing deeply, Tom let his head fall back. The ceiling had never held his attention until now. The contours, the blankness, the subtle folds of shading that condensed in the corners... it wasn't really interesting... but it was better than watching the floor.  
  
It was also the one thing Tom hadn't washed this summer.  
  
Muffled voices filtered into his scattered thoughts. Thoughts of classes, random people, early childhood memories... Tom Riddle...  
  
The muffled voices returned to him, and his thoughts were hushed... Tom Riddle, he'd heard...  
  
"Yes, it's that Mr. Riddle again."  
  
"So it is?" The second voice sounded uninterested.  
  
Tom slid off his trunk. How many other Riddles could there be?  
  
"He's been making trouble for the longest time. I can't make him stop..."  
  
Honestly, he hadn't been causing THAT much trouble.  
  
"...of course he has every right to, but still... oh, that boy..."  
  
The second voice sounded again. "What about the boy?"  
  
"The poor boy can't stay forever."  
  
Now Tom was certain.  
  
"And he won't."  
  
"Not with all this trouble."  
  
"Don't speak of him. I won't have it."  
  
Tom inched closer to the door.  
  
"It's threatening, miss."  
  
Threatening? How was he threatening?  
  
"Threatening to whom?"  
  
"I – I don't know, exactly, miss... but one thing's for sure, this can't keep happening. He'll learn the truth if Mr. Riddle isn't careful."  
  
What truth?  
  
"That's precisely what he wants."  
  
Who?  
  
Tom found himself with his hand on the doorknob, turned, waiting for a reason to push...  
  
The next statement was hushed. "You don't suppose he means to come here?"  
  
I am here, Tom thought. He pushed.  
  
Upon Tom's sudden arrival, the two heads exchanged quick looks. One face was flushed, the other severely pink. The pink belonged to Mrs. Wentworth. "I heard my name," Tom blurted.  
  
"We weren't talking about you, Mr. Riddle," she snapped.  
  
There it was, the name. "But you were!" he countered lamely.  
  
"We were talking about someone else," the other head offered, soothingly, it seemed.  
  
"Someone else with my name?"  
  
Mrs. Wentworth frowned, her lips pursed, her nose wrinkled. There was no room for evading. "Yes, Mr. Riddle." She turned her head with a snap, intending to quiet the other head with a look, but the woman intentionally wasn't looking her way.  
  
Tom's attention was focused now on the other head, who'd taken a breath to speak, her eyes closed in resignation.  
  
The door opened.  
  
"Ah, Miss Greenwood. It's about time."  
  
Lily's hand was on Tom's shoulder. "The car's ready," she said.  
  
Mrs. Wentworth was ushering him out.  
  
"Have a good year," she droned, a little harshly.  
  
"But – " He fought against Lily's tightening grip. "No!"  
  
"Good bye, Mr. Riddle," the other woman said, now smarting from her near slip, contemplating the answer she held to all of Tom's questions.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
AN: Believe me, this chapter was NOT to frustrate you! You'll have answers. Hence the chapter title. Okay. Yesh. Erm... reviews? 


	8. Year Two 1939

AN: Alas, an insanely short chapter. I apologize – I really didn't have much to say except random musings and scattered Quidditch events. But the next year will be better, I promise. And, if anyone's familiar with WWII history, they'll realize that I just couldn't help myself from making the London Blitz a factor. Well, just like everything else I've promised, that is coming next year as well.  
  
Oh yes, and I updated the first chapter with a small intro with Voldemort's musings on his past.  
  
That said, I'll let the ominous-ness return (bum bum BUM!)  
  
~~  
  
Chapter Eight: Year Two - 1939  
  
~~  
  
It took a few days for Tom to readjust to his carefree world of magic, but when he finally did, he was unimaginably relieved. There was no mystery here, at least not to a larger degree.  
  
It was nearly impossible to say the castle held no mystery. There were a few times Tom found himself lost in the maze of corridors and under its haunted ceilings, even after promising himself he'd learned from his mistakes from the previous year. But after every dead end or vaguely familiar tapestry, Tom found his way, eventually.  
  
There was always an answer, and that's what was comforting.  
  
Questions aside, Tom found it easier to enjoy the game of Quidditch as the season returned in November. It was an entertaining game to be sure, but internally, an ever-raging battle raged on.  
  
Artemus Black, much to his own delight, had been appointed as Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team. Even if it hadn't been announced officially by Don Evans, the captain, or if it hadn't been posted three times in the Slytherin common room, it would have become obvious after the countless practices Artemus tended to do, even without the team.  
  
Walking around the hallways, he interrogated members of the team about tactics they'd already gone over some umpteen times, threatened first years into coming to the first game of the season, even when they assured him profusely they'd already intended to. He even carried his broom with him – a brand new model of the first Nimbus, the finest – under his arm between classes.  
  
Tom, however, stood with a foot in both worlds – Slytherin and Gryffindor. He found it important, yet not wholly necessary to mention, that Simon Potter was now the Gryffindor seeker.  
  
It became all too clear at the opening game, however. Tom wasn't at all surprised when the match ensued with especial brutality.  
  
It seemed the Beaters shared Black's disdain, judging by the countless number of bludgers Simon had dodged by the end of the game.  
  
The end of the game; which he'd won, by the way.  
  
Something worth noting in his memory was an award they'd shoved into Tom's reluctant hands that year. It was an academic achievement, and therefore, a cause of shame for a twelve-year-old boy.  
  
But looking back, it really was incredible. Him, a small boy with no extraordinary experience with magic, deprived of his life until only recently, receiving an award for the highest scores among the first years for his end-of-year tests.  
  
Indeed, shameful – and hardly noted.  
  
Rumors of war continued their due course of causing panic – only slight panic, mind you. It wasn't for sure, but it was enough for a few worried looks, and even a couple of students to be excused from class in order to properly mourn their loss.  
  
And yet, what business did a wizard have in a fight among muggles? It was an interesting issue to some... unapproached by others... but after the numbers of casualties increased, it became vaguely but not surely evident that the World would shed blood, and not just the muggles involved.  
  
Tom would have liked to put the matter aside and go about his second year as it should be – not too keen on the idea of arguing politics. But Simon had grown quiet lately, his only utterance being a confession that his Dad was in the Royal Navy.  
  
What business would he have in the Royal Navy if he were already an Auror? Tom never asked, figuring it was a touchy subject.  
  
But just as the end of the year approached, Tom now hitting the big thirteen mark without celebration, he realized something he hadn't seen before.  
  
He hadn't wanted to see it – that this life, this world, it wasn't a refuge for him. It wasn't a world on it's own. Sure, magic offered it's own protection, a looming castle tended to inspire a sort of surreal façade of safety – but the truth remained that he lived in the same world, breathed the same air, watched the same fading sky as someone lying on their back, motionless, paralyzed, dying in the silence of a dead battle.  
  
Hoping for refuge from what he'd counted on as a real childhood, he instead found his old life waiting for him... back in the hands of the state – along with the growing numbers of orphaned children that would join him.  
  
When the end of the year came around and kindly stopped for them, Tom found himself following the same routine, taking the same tests, cheering for the same Quidditch team, laughing at the same jokes, smiling awkwardly at the same familiar faces... now hoping he could have taken his wish back... now hoping things would never change.  
  
Now hoping death would never come - to anyone - to him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
AN: Like I've said before, I just can't keep myself away from this stupid drama.  
  
Reviews!  
  
Awkward: Thank you for that! Sometimes these corny chapter titles really bother me.  
  
Kim (and the really long name): Thank you! I must have skipped that interview or something, but I've read as many as I could. Damn, now I'll have to factor her in or something. Oh, and I reviewed one of your stories, but I don't think it got through, and it won't let me review again. Bleh.  
  
Miss Piratess: Okay, okay! Gosh, tell the rabid weasels to get OFF me! I'll give you answers! Okay... haha... Glad you like Lillian. One of my key characters that I just couldn't avoid. I was afraid people would find her annoying. And yes, she will serve a larger role in the whole HP chronology, if that's what you're trying to figure out. 


	9. Condemned Discovery

Chapter Nine: Condemned Discovery  
  
The enigma was exhausting. Despite his want of answers, Tom soon found his return hadn't been a blessing at all. It only bothered him worse... without the refuge.  
  
His life was one big bloody question mark.  
  
Blessing or not, this wretched place was the only past he had. Either too discreet to ask, or too afraid of saying anything out of turn, Tom kept silent.  
  
Mrs. Wentworth had come to hate Tom even more, if it were at all possible. She caught him playing with the younger children and scolded him for interfering with their social experience with other children their own age.  
  
Her reasons were always a wide stretch, but with no less authority. Tom soon found his way to fight back.  
  
"Can I have another roll, Missus Went-werf?" called a small girl for the third time, her childlike oblivion to ignorance only keeping her constant and persistent, as if nobody had heard her before.  
  
The head only answered with silence.  
  
Tom rolled his eyes. "Can Morgan have another roll?"  
  
Mrs. Wentworth's head snapped up impulsively – almost instinctively – her lips pressed tightly in a firm line. "Children must learn to be grateful for what they are given, Mr. Riddle."  
  
Tom clenched his fists around his fork and knife, which turned out to be painful after a few minutes. She seemed to have an infinite supply of this rubbish.  
  
With well-hidden mirth behind a face as blank as stone, Tom found his weapon.  
  
"I see you have three on your plate, ma'am."  
  
Her hand quickly covered the one closest to her. "And I have the authority and provisions to enjoy that privilege."  
  
"What kind of an example is that, ma'am – to show that those in power can indulge themselves when they have the means to, leaving their subjects to suffer?"  
  
The table had grown silent, with an occasional scrape of a fork or spoon. Little Morgan's mouth was open in awe of Tom's acquired vocabulary – clearly, she hadn't caught any of it.  
  
But Mrs. Wentworth had, and she wasn't nearly as impressed. On the contrary – she sighed in realizing this would grow increasingly more difficult as the child became more and more educated.  
  
"If you're really that hungry, Mr. Riddle..." Mrs. Wentworth began in one sigh. She continued with a sense of bitter provoking irony, "...feel free to rise above your inferiors."  
  
The table was silent – mortified.  
  
"But it was... it was Morgan who – "  
  
"And once you step on those below you, blame them for your faults."  
  
Still silent – still mortified.  
  
"I didn't!"  
  
Little Morgan ended up running from the table hungry, crying, and confused.  
  
It could have been considered a fight back, even when not successful. It'd been tough in those years, struggling with power. He hadn't wanted it for himself yet – he'd only wanted the satisfaction of bringing his superiors down to his level.  
  
Later, he learned to manipulate that power. He learned how easy it could be – no struggle, no fight, no effort at all... only charm, trust, and betrayal.  
  
Surely, he was too young to fathom or accomplish such a thing, but his effort was worth noting in his memory. He'd fought young.  
  
With rebellion came curiosity.  
  
Tom had grown this unavoidable habit lately of confiscating mail in hopes it would pay off. Despite his efforts, it never did. He hadn't exactly known what he'd been looking for... any sign, really. Some sign of discrepancy, anything out of the ordinary, anything that could possibly conquer his boredom.  
  
It was now the extremity of summer, lurching slowly into a lazy autumn. The weather seemed to be deciding still between August and September.  
  
Tom was sick and tired of it all.  
  
Luckily, today would be the last day he had to endure – for now, at least.  
  
The orphanage was quiet – being a Saturday, the majority of sleepers slept in. Tom found himself thumbing through the post, almost like a dreaded routine, replacing each letter in a sloppy-but-not-too-sloppy pile at the foot of the door.  
  
First letter – nothing.  
  
Next letter – nothing.  
  
This was ridiculous.  
  
Nothing.  
  
If something were to happen, it would have happened by now.  
  
Nothing.  
  
What had he expected, anyway?  
  
Nothing.  
  
Absolutely nothing, that's what.  
  
Nothing addressed to him, nothing seemingly about him, nothing...  
  
He reached the last letter with dreary resignation – the exclamation hanging that it was nothing – only to find his own name scrawled in perfect flourishing script, foreign to his hand, but bearing his name nonetheless.  
  
A letter from himself? With trembling hands, he ripped the envelope open.  
  
The letter began without preamble or any silly formalities.  
  
I am fully aware of the circumstances. Who would know better about Tom than I?  
  
The script grew swifter, harder, and Tom's interest was piqued.  
  
I am also aware of the controversy concerning his condition and the troubles that are expected to arise from it. Being in no way related to the matter in general, I wash my hands of it.  
  
I understand your concern in his welfare and the suspicion that I have disowned him, and in doing so, shirked my rights and duties as his father. However, conversely, you will find that I employ these rights quite effectively in choosing where my son is raised.  
  
When he comes to the age where he is no longer your responsibility or mine, he may seek for me if he so wishes, but I do not encourage any expectations.  
  
Concerning his aforementioned school and otherwise abnormal activities, I care not – and to be completely frank, I find it a hassle to have to justify my decisions with inquisitive authorities such as yourselves.  
With Much Respect,  
Thomas Riddle  
  
Unaware of the waking noises around him, Tom sat, staring blankly at the paper. He read it again, hoping his ears would stop pounding. On the contrary – it grew worse, aside from the twisting pain that bubbled in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He smoothed out the paper so many times, the ink began to blur slightly.  
  
Footsteps sounded behind him, but inside the lost and suddenly chaotic chambers of his mind, all was quiet – enough that he could hear his heart beating steadily but fiercely, and the sound of his blood rushing into every part of his baffled self.  
  
Like a jolt, he was deprived of his reverie when the letter was snatched from his offering hands. He finally brought his head up, crediting the distractive world with a glance.  
  
His glance revealed the Head's gaze – sharp, piercing, and ever so accusing.  
  
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Riddle?" she hissed, giving the letter an evaluating scan.  
  
His mouth formed words, but no sound came out.  
  
Silence – then, "I see you've stumbled upon quite a find."  
  
He swallowed, nodding his head. "My father," he answered, his voice cracking slightly, as if it were the first attempt at verbal communication in his life.  
  
The noises of morning, with all their busy distractions, weren't consoling at all. Utter silence would have been worse, but at least in that case, Tom might have been able to sort these things out.  
  
With whatever bravado this confused oblivion brought him, Tom brought his eyes to meet Mrs. Wentworth's. With a slight recoil of surprise, he noticed her eyes had softened while looking into his own – her demeanor still harshly accusing, but her face apologetic under the circumstances she'd found this boy under.  
  
"Yes."  
  
With all the enormity and trouble this new notion brought into Tom's mind, this was all she could possibly find in herself to say?  
  
Her gentleness only infuriated Tom the more. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"  
  
"It wasn't my decision, or anyone else's. It was his own doing."  
  
"Why wouldn't he – "  
  
Her brusqueness returned. "It's no matter right now. I can't let this go unpaid."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Your accursed sense of curiosity, Mr. Riddle," she cried – almost sang. She continued, giving Tom the distinct impression he'd be washing windows or cooking again.  
  
He soon found he didn't have to interrupt her disciplinary musings, for someone else already had. "Excuse me, ma'am, but he couldn't possibly do any more work here – now."  
  
Her wrinkled brow furrowed intensely as she raised an eyebrow in question, and Tom turned around to see Lily behind him.  
  
She suddenly grew aware of her insubordination. "Well, see, Tom's leaving today."  
  
The boy in question suddenly found himself incredibly grateful for having Lily around, even with her aggravating secrecy.  
  
The rumble of the car wasn't comforting. Neither was the silence. Nothing was, in fact – especially this new revelation.  
  
"How come no one told me?" Tom asked no one in particular – in a whining voice, he noted. He knew he'd already gotten the best answer he'd get, but he persisted with the question, anyway.  
  
He hadn't expected an answer. "They thought it best you didn't know," came Lily's distant reply.  
  
"You know what this is about?"  
  
"Many do."  
  
"The whole world, except me."  
  
Lily laughed. "No, just the heads and, well, and me. I've been appointed as sort of a caretaker for you."  
  
Tom was disgusted at the thought. "A caretaker?"  
  
"Well." She smiled nervously. "Seeing as you're a wizard and all that..."  
  
"How do you – what – hey!"  
  
Lily laughed. "It's true, isn't it?" The required attention to the road denied Lily of Tom's reaction, though his reply said enough.  
  
"Well, no... yes... "  
  
"Then? Why the indignation?"  
  
Awkward silence – then, "Do you know everything about me?"  
  
Lily frowned. "If I do, then you must be one hell of a simple person."  
  
Tom crossed his arms over his chest. He sat in silence for a time, sorting his thoughts, which only branched out into extended chaos. After a while, he caught a question in flight, deciding to focus on it. It was, after all, rather important in understanding things.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Lily replied immediately. "Why what?" She seemed to have been anticipating an inquiry.  
  
"Why won't he take care of me?" he asked, unsure if the question struck him personally or not. He didn't know his father, and as far as things went, his father didn't know him either. Why should it offend him?  
  
"I don't know."  
  
It was a simple enough answer. For a while, Tom let it sit in lieu of the answer he would wait for, no matter how complicated.  
  
"What do you know?" he then asked.  
  
Lily glanced at him. "You want to know what I know?"  
  
What kind of a question was that? "I asked, didn't I?"  
  
She sighed, turning the car left in the process. "Your mother's dead. You bear your father's name."  
  
A dry laugh escaped. "That's it?" he replied incredulously.  
  
"Pretty much, yes."  
  
"That much was already obvious. There must be more." There was always more.  
  
"Sure there is. I don't know it."  
  
Tom bit his lip, the silence only letting his thoughts stir again. "You don't know anything else?"  
  
"They don't tell me anything, to be honest. And dropping eaves doesn't exactly bring answers. You're lucky I know this much."  
  
"Then how does a muggle like you know about Hogwarts?"  
  
Lily grinned. "Just lucky, I guess."  
  
That wretched secrecy again.  
  
"I won't be here next year," she said, turning the car right.  
  
Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or sorry. "Why?"  
  
She grinned at him, appearing to be unsure of whether he meant it or not. "I've got a job, now. I'm moving out."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Tom kept reticent for the remainder of the trip, and even after leaving the car. He sat waiting patiently in the Leaky Cauldron for any sign of the Blacks. They'd agreed to help him with his money problem, as they had the previous year and the year before that.  
  
Instead, he met three Blacks – Alphard, Artemus, and their mother.  
  
She seemed gracious and kind-hearted, though stern. She greeted him in her own quietly polite, yet unnervingly critical way. Tom tried not to let her watchful eye discomfort him, answered her inquiries promptly, said nothing when she learned of his heritage, and thanked her profusely after the shopping had been done.  
  
She said nothing in return, but only took the three of them to King's Cross, and, in Tom's presence, refrained from her routine criticism. Artemus and Alphard seemed grateful.  
  
The train ride was long, but not necessarily uneventful – two of the new prefects dueled, someone's game of gobstones went dreadfully wrong, a monster of a boy tripped over his own feet which caused the train to rumble, and the head boy, Frank Bott, gave every compartment a test of his uncle's new candy, which proved to be unfortunate, for some.  
  
Tom felt himself detaching from these little events, brooding over the idea that there was life – a family, even – beyond what he'd known. He'd gotten used to the idea of having no father, and as such, had grown rather attached to the sympathy that came with it from others who learned of his tragic story.  
  
One could say that, in a way, the story had suddenly grown worse, more tragic in that he had a father after all who didn't want anything to do with his own son, but Tom found the story held less dependability now, and more pain.  
  
There was even a moment in which he pitied himself.  
  
Had Tom felt the ability to speak, and the will to unload his burden, he would have told the Blacks what was wrong with him when they asked him silently, bearing faces of worry and foreboding. He'd never realized how bitter his features had portrayed him as in those brief but constant moments of thought.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~ 


	10. Sorting Thoughts

AN: The stuff about the war may seem irrelevant, but I'm planning on using it as the story develops. I'm actually very angry for forgetting all about Dumbledore for nearly three years. Ergh.  
  
Reviewer notes (but really quick):  
  
Duskrider Q: Thank you! I tend to avoid any descriptions in fear of boring people. But, I suppose, your opinion is more relevant than mine.  
  
Stormtrooper in Stilettos: Contrived, yes. My writing is slipping. But thanks for the review.  
  
Miss Piratess: Of course you sense a growing darkness – he'll be a murderer by fifth year.  
  
Awkward: Thank you. I really do need the critiquing. And I tend to realize this stuff a few days after posting them, and therefore, already after everyone's read it. I probably should have written the entire story before posting it.  
  
Nikki: Thank you. Dursley may be too much, but I can't stand inventing characters in a fan fiction. I just feel as if I don't have the right to.

...

Chapter Ten: Sorting Thoughts

...

It never took long to spot Simon out of the crowd, but it must have taken a while to spot Tom, for he wasn't approached by the Potter until after the last of the students had reached the castle.  
  
Tom found he'd almost forgotten about Simon, though he wasn't sure why I didn't seem so much a tragedy.  
  
"Had a nice summer?" the boy asked, grinning roguishly at the fact that he had surpassed Tom in height, who, until now, had always been taller.  
  
"No," he replied honestly, taking the first of the stone steps.  
  
Simon was silenced, as if he hadn't even thought there could be a negative answer. He quickly recovered.  
  
"Wonder whether Slytherin'll do any better playing this year," he mused as they both entered the castle.  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Quidditch."  
  
"Oh... yeah. Sure."  
  
Simon smiled, knowing Tom would never take it as an insult, though he wasn't too sure now. "I'm sure they would if you were picked sometime soon. It's about time – I've never seen you on a broom."  
  
"Neither have I." Once again, an honest answer, but not what Simon had hoped for.  
  
Upon entering the Great Hall, the two awkwardly estranged friends separated without question.  
  
Approaching the Slytherin table, Tom resorted to the only vacant seat, which was next to Driedda Malfoy. A long, slow, sarcastic breath escaped from her as she looked away, and the large oak doors opened once again.  
  
A small, huddled crowd – a smaller crowd than ever a first year crowd had been – was shuffling nervously under the gaze of hundreds of older eyes – amused eyes.  
  
Tom couldn't help but wonder to himself if he'd really been that small once. It seemed like last week he'd been sorted into what must have been the wrong house – which now seemed to suit his mood so perfectly.  
  
"Aldernin, Kenneth!"  
  
In this uneventful manner, the Sorting began. It wasn't as exciting or dreadful as it had been the first time. In fact, Tom couldn't help but think himself a wimp for being so scared of such a petty event, let alone a stupid hat.  
  
"Delsy, Benjamin!"  
  
Tom seized his fork, and began idly drawing random shapes on the wood.  
  
"Fudge, Cornelius!"  
  
Feeling his boredom intensify, Tom began carving these random shapes into intricate engravings, having no particular structure yet.  
  
"Hagrid, Rubeus!"  
  
He stopped to consider his work. A rough outline that resembled a skull was forming, and Tom found himself intrigued. He deepened the carving.  
  
"Hornby, Olive!"  
  
He glanced up when the sorted girl was directed to their table, noticing the Slytherin flag behind her. Its insignia bore a cunning green and noble silver, in which a snake reared it's hypnotic head.  
  
"Ingred, Forest!"  
  
Captivated, Tom began incorporating the snake into his design. But upon continuing on the wood before him, he noticed his shapes and doodles had disappeared, and his skull was quickly fading.  
  
"Montague, Henry!"  
  
Tom suddenly realized how stupid he must have been to think the table wasn't magical at all, that no one had ever, after a thousand years, attempted to carve anything before. No wonder it was in perfect condition.  
  
"Trill, Jennifer!"  
  
Frustrated with his invincible boredom, Tom swore under his breath. Driedda turned her head, surprised. Tom smiled sheepishly, with a hint of a grin. She rolled her eyes, and haughtily turned away.  
  
"Whit, Myrtle!"  
  
After the Sorting had ended with Myrtle's sorting into Hufflepuff, Tom found himself marveling at how Driedda's black hair cascaded over her shoulders, proving darker in contrast with her already black robes.  
  
He hadn't noticed he'd been staring like an idiot until she turned back to him, and caught his transfixed gaze.  
  
Disgusted and slightly amused, she sat back and spoke, for once. "Do you want something?"  
  
"No." He looked away.  
  
"You do realize there's food on the table now, don't you?"  
  
"Yes," he lied.  
  
"Then have some," she said slowly. "God, the muggles couldn't have made you that stupid."  
  
Knowing now with a surety that she was cold and horrid, Tom nevertheless found her all the more wonderful. Confiscating the potatoes and violently hurling massive globs onto his plate, he irritably swore again.

...

Upon finally reaching the third year boy's dormitory, dropping his encumbering trunk with a resounding thud, and plummeting onto the four poster bed of his choice, Tom spread out his arms with a thorough sigh – savoring the feeling of the only real home he'd known for the past two years. All life before Hogwarts had become irrelevant.  
  
As soon as Tom had relaxed, he heard an outcry of frustration. Without opening his eyes one wink, he knew it was Artemus.  
  
"Now what makes you so special that you get the window, eh Tom?"  
  
Bringing his hands behind his head, the student in question frowned. "There's another window, you know," he said reproachfully, almost irritably.  
  
"Sure there is, but it'd be difficult to copy your homework with my stuff over there."  
  
Tom opened one eye, raising an eyebrow. "Copy me? Do it yourself."  
  
Artemus replied with a challenging grin. "Why do the work when I have clever, noble sir Fine Student here to back me up?"  
  
"Oh, shut up." Tom threw a pillow, but grinned nonetheless.  
  
"Though, you could do horribly in our new classes," Artemus replied in mock contemplation.  
  
"New classes?"  
  
Artemus laughed. "Have you forgotten already? We chose them last year. Divination, Astronomy, Magical Creatures? Ring a bell?"  
  
"Oh." That had been before he had a father – years ago, it seemed, but only a month or two.  
  
Defense Against the Dark Arts was the first thing he had the next morning, but he had to admit by the time he got to his class, he hadn't fully woken up. He'd merely wandered out of bed, dreaming about breakfast, and ending up in the right classroom.  
  
In a resigned air of defeat, Tom opened his Defense book as the rest of the class had been instructed to do.  
  
"Many of you may have already noticed," Ms. Morgan droned, irked by the dignity of such an organized lesson, "that you have books in front of you. I recommended you buy those, did I not?"  
  
Agreement was hesitant, as the answer was so obvious.  
  
"Master Dippet was troubled by my way of teaching, and inquired, or rather strongly suggested with my career in question, that I teach you according to the standard, and not by the mere whims I tend to come up with so brilliantly." She paused, bitterly sighing. "I may have paraphrased the quote a bit, but all the same, you have books now."  
  
With a sour look that had become a typical expression to her face, Driedda Malfoy let her hand raise in the air. As soon as she had done so, she immediately spoke her question, whether the teacher had allowed her to or not.  
  
"Will we be doing boggarts a second time?"  
  
"Conceivably." It was either a yes with discretion of Mr. Riddle's discomfort, or a simple no in disguise. Either way, it was too vague for Tom's liking, but clear enough for Driedda to conclude there was no answer.  
  
Annoyed, Tom ripped a piece of parchment from the corner of his notes, continuing his meaningless insignia. He stealthily glanced to each side, and in finding that no one was watching him, he sketched the skull.  
  
Anyone else might have found it disturbing, but it comforted him. It was like meeting an old friend... except he'd never known this feeling before. It was like the satisfaction of digging his nails into the desk, the urge to round otherwise perfectly square edges.  
  
The snake came next, symbolic of something, Tom was sure, but of what – he didn't know yet.  
  
Perhaps the skull was saying something – the words being a snake. Charming somehow, yet in another way lethal.  
  
Tom simpered at his creation, subconsciously praying he'd never meet his boggart again.

...

In the torturous schedule of education, Potions came next in line. This he'd anticipated, for a burning question had entered his mind, and the subject of the lesson only further prompted him to say something.  
  
"Strengthening Solutions," Professor Malfoy bellowed in hopes of waking up a few students, "are obvious and simple little brews, if not self- explanatory."  
  
"You can actually become immune to attacks?" Tom blurted like an idiot.  
  
"No."  
  
"But could you ever do that?"  
  
"Is this off the subject, Mr. Riddle?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Then I'll continue and forget I was interrupted."  
  
Feeling insulted and stupid in the same moment, Tom felt his face begin to burn. Unable and unwilling to let his features show his embarrassment, he merely let the fire lurk and grow deep within him, leaving him to chip away at the edge of the desk, as he had become prone to do.  
  
However, the professor continued the lesson in the strangest way. Rather than being annoyed – his short temper ruined by a single student's lack of control – he finished his lecture, and sat at his desk, a mere surveyor bearing a smile that continued to grow.  
  
Tom's suspicions that something was going on out of the ordinary were confirmed when he was held back by the professor. Malfoy stood for a moment, his eyes wandering as his ears listened for retreating footsteps. Once every student had gone, he finally spoke.  
  
"What did you want to know?" His smile was expectant.  
  
Tom shifted uncomfortably. "I only wanted to know if I could – "  
  
"There are shields," Malfoy interposed.  
  
"Oh," Tom replied, wondering if he should venture further. "What about – "  
  
"You're probably wondering why I did not answer you right away, if I'm not mistaken."  
  
"Yes," he replied awkwardly, wondering if all the interruptions were necessary.  
  
"It's a tender subject – or at least, it would have been if you asked anything about power over death."  
  
He didn't even stop to think how the professor might have known that.  
  
"As I said, there are certain precautions. It's been poorly researched, there's yet to be anyone who experimented without any risk of fatality."  
  
"Forget the risk," Tom said thoughtlessly. "Can't they come back?"  
  
The professor smiled again – against his will, it seemed. He must have been struggling with the fact that Tom was unworthy of anything Salazar Slytherin may have found noble, but he was, at the same time, the perfect candidate for the Dark Arts.  
  
"They can."  
  
"How? What does it take?"  
  
The professor ignored his pupil's eager demand for knowledge.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
He sighed. "I'll let you know, Mr. Riddle, if ever there's a day you need it."  
  
Why would he avoid the answers? Hadn't he been the one to hold Tom back – encouraging him to ask? This was really starting to get aggravating.  
  
Tom laughed sarcastically "You'll stand on my grave and tell me – " Faltering, he shuddered anew at the thought. Professor Malfoy cut him off before he could recover.  
  
"I doubt I'll outlive you, but yes, that's the idea."  
  
"But sir, I – "  
  
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"  
  
"It's lunch, sir."  
  
"Then eat," he snapped suddenly. "And don't even think of starving yourself in hopes I'll follow my pledge."  
  
Tom wondered if he would.

...

Over the opening weeks of September, dreading whispers soon erupted into solemn gossip of death. By the middle of September – what with the constant raids in the night, the innumerable bombings, and the solid walls of fire consuming all in its path – London had grown to be nothing short of hell.  
  
Hogwarts had become a sanctuary – however full of anxiety.  
  
On a lighter note, Divination had turned out to be an undeniable load of rubbish. Their teacher, Professor Knoll, was so incredibly senile, he often forgot what subject he was teaching, and spouted into extensive lectures about Goblin rebellions, which the students had already heard enough of from their recently late History of Magic teacher to recite the obscure names in their sleep.  
  
There were times he left them to their own work so he could have a short rest, which generally resulted in worried inquiries of whether the man had died or not. Many found it useless to get their hopes up, for the man always made a squeak of life when a volunteer student poked him.  
  
Potions had proved to be one of Tom's best subjects, even with the odd pensive looks the professor never ceased to wear whenever coming across Mr. Riddle.  
  
"Serpents," the professor announced without preamble. He tended to begin lessons like this – one word introductions meant to encompass the entire lesson. It rarely worked in capturing the students' attention, but the Slytherins seemed especially reverent today in finding a caged snake watching them at the front. It was as if Slytherin himself had silenced them.  
  
The Gryffindors seemed as uninterested as ever.  
  
"There are many types in the world. Different snakes, different venoms. Muggles have taken the impossible burden upon themselves to find a cure for each one – but we know better, don't we?"  
  
Tom and Artemus smirked in unison.  
  
"There's one universal antidote for all non-magical venomous snakes. The directions – " He casually waved his wand behind him, and the words appeared.  
  
"I wonder why he brought the snake," Artemus mused while lighting his cauldron.  
  
"Probably for show. He's the head of Slytherin – why shouldn't he?"  
  
Artemus lowered his voice, throwing in his first ingredients almost over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the snake. "I don't know. I mean, knowing him, he could just let it bite one of us in order to test their work."  
  
"He wouldn't do that," Tom said, however unsure of his claim.  
  
"He couldn't, but he would if he could."  
  
Tom paused for a moment to translate. He made a sound of indifference – as long as it wasn't him.  
  
Class had ended, and there hadn't been any fatalities. The Professor hadn't said a word, in fact, after his little introduction. However, the potions weren't done, seeing as they needed to simmer for a few days.  
  
It was then, with Tom and Artemus the last to flee from the room, that Malfoy finally spoke.  
  
"A word, Mr. Riddle?"  
  
"Again?" Artemus muttered.  
  
"You don't have to wait, Mr. Black. Or you, Potter."  
  
Simon appeared from around the corner, glanced at Tom, and left as quickly as he had appeared. Artemus hesitantly followed suit.  
  
Professor Malfoy turned his back to Tom, and walked over to the cage that held the serpent with slow, thoughtful strides. Awkwardly, and having nothing else to do, Tom followed.  
  
"Ever encountered a snake before?" The atmosphere had suddenly grown less cold, and more inviting. Tom actually found himself able to answer without discomfort.  
  
"No."  
  
Malfoy looked disappointed.  
  
"Ever wanted to?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
He looked as though taking note of something. He turned away, sighing. "Afraid of them?"  
  
Tom knew it wasn't meant in a provocative way, but he couldn't help but feel challenged. "No," he said firmly.  
  
The Professor chuckled, taking the boy's confidence as a sort of reckless bravado. "Of course you aren't."  
  
There was a moment in which silence was all that was heard, as if it were a deafening wind that passed through the entire room without rustling any papers, or leaving anything out of place. Tom looked up after watching his feet for a whole minute to find the professor had been watching him the entire time.  
  
He seemed to have been anticipating the eye contact. He narrowed his eyes as if reading miniscule words from far away, and Tom found it increasingly difficult to tear his own eyes away.  
  
"Sir?" he asked uncertainly.  
  
The professor turned his gaze to the wall as he thought. "Yes?"  
  
"May I ask... why I'm here?"  
  
"Why you're – "  
  
"Why you called me back."  
  
"Oh." Malfoy brought his hand to his chin. "No reason."  
  
"Sir." He wasn't buying that.  
  
"For reasons you don't understand yet."  
  
"I appreciate the honesty, sir, but with all due respect, I'd like to know what all this is about."  
  
"I understand you'll be studying snake charming in Care of Magical Creatures soon," the professor interposed.  
  
"I – I wasn't aware of that, but I suppose so – "  
  
"I'll see you in class on Monday. Your potion should be ready by then." 


	11. Charm, at first

This chapter is posted purely for the purpose of an author's note, and this story's temporary sentencing to a shameful gruesome death.  
I know I'm not allowed to do that, but... meh.  
  
Alright, now. To the Author's Note.  
  
Author's Note: This story is put to sleep with a blanket over its eyes so it won't make conspicuous noises. This isn't for a lack of ideas - believe me, I've got pages upon pages of notes.  
  
I just think a more vignette-ish style would be easier for me. I really don't do structured novel-style chapters. I get side-tracked into too many side-plots.  
  
I probably won't post it until it's completely finished, for the sake of never having to do this to all you wonderful people again.  
  
So... don't expect any updates for quite awhile.


End file.
